Concrete Jungle
by estrafalaria103
Summary: "When we graduate I'm coming back here and going to college here. This is where I belong." Klainchel and Brittana in NYC post McKinley. College brings its own set of problems, and the city of bright lights turns out to have a dark side.
1. Prologue: Kurt

13:57

The city rises up below him. Kurt sucks in a breath as the plane soars over Staten Island. He sucks in a breath, because even though he's been here before, it all feels so delightfully, deliciously new. He presses his face against the window, ignoring the disgruntled sound from the man sitting beside him, ignoring the way that his nose is smushed up in such a way that he must look like a pig. None of that matters, because he can see the Statue of Liberty, just there, standing proud and alone on Liberty Island. He can see the skyline of New York City – the Financial District, and then the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Manhattan Bridge. He sucks in a breath, because this is too much, it's just too unbelievable.

He's finally made it. He's escaped Ohio.

The plane is lower now, and the blocky buildings of Queens are eating up the jeweled skyline of Manhattan. He settles back in his seat, a silly grin plastered across his face. He ignores the graffiti on the buildings, the way that he can see junky old cars littering the streets. Sure, he recognizes that Queens is, technically, a part of New York, but it's not going to be _his_ New york.

His city is going to be early morning bagels and coffee, musicals at night, wandering hand in hand with his gorgeous boyfriend through the Union Square Farmers' Market and to listen to the buskers at Washington Square. His city is going to be Broadway shows with Rachel, romantic picnics in Central Park, and eventually a proposal at Serendipity. His city is going to be glitter and fame.

The plane hits the ground with a jolt, jerking Kurt back into reality. A small shiver of fear rises in his stomach. He's only flown on a plane twice before: his junior year, to Nationals here. Senior year Nationals had taken place in Chicago, and they'd just taken a bus.

He's never ridden a plane before, and never had to figure out how to get to an unknown destination. It's with trembling fingers that he drags his shoulder satchel out from under the seat in front of him, and grabs out the sheet of paper that tells him the address of his dorm. He knows that he's gnawing on his bottom lip, a nervous habit that he's been trying to get rid of for years. At that moment he doesn't care 00 there's no one there to see him, at least.

Satisfied that he has the street and name memorized: 9th street, not that hard – he pulls out his phone, and quickly notices the three missed texts and one missed call. The call, of course, is from his Dad, and he knows that he'll have to call him back soon. But first, to save time, he tells himself, he looks at the messages.

_**Just checked into the dorms. Going to Lincoln Center for an opening Gala. Julliard is fantastic!**_That one was from Rachel.

_**Miss you. ):**_ Blaine, of course.

_**Burt's freaking out. Call him ASAP as soon as possible. PLEASE**_.

Kurt grins a little as he deletes his stepbrothers message. University of Ohio starts a week later than NYU, so Finn is still at home. Kurt shoots quick responses to Rachel and Blaine (_**Still on for breakfast at Tiffany's tomorrow?**_ and _**Miss you, too! 3**_) before finally calling his dad.

Burt Hummel picks up on the second ring. "Hello? Kurt? That you?"

"Hi, Dad," Kurt rolls his eyes a little. The plane is done moving, and most of the passengers are up like shots, rummaging in overhead bins, or just milling around awkwardly mere feet from their seats. "We just landed. The plane ride went fine."

"Oh, good," Burt says, clearing his throat a little. "Glad to hear it. Give me a call when you check in, yeah?

"Of course, Dad," Kurt says. "I've got to go now. . .we're getting off the plane."

They're not yet – or rather, he's not, not based upon his cheap tickets in the very back. But he can see the movement near the front of the plane, the way people are jostling around in first class. He tries to ignore the mini explosions going off in his stomach, as he shoulders his leather satchel (a Christmas present from Blaine) and tries to stand in the cabins' cramped quarters. He shifts a little, gazing out at the flat, grey waters of the . . .of the. . .well, of whatever river runs around Laguardia Airport.

It takes him almost an hour to deboard and retrieve his luggage. He's staring at it all hopelessly – three checked pieces and two carry-ons. This, of course, is after his father had flatly refused to pay for more checked pieces. In the interest of peace, Kurt had agreed to leave the majority of his wardrobe at home. Of course, he fully expects to pick up some more when he's home for Thanksgiving. Then the rest after Christmas break. Still, although he'd been furious at his dad initially, he's now completely confused with what to do with the luggage that he _did_ bring. There's no Finn in New York to help him cart it around.

Eventually he swipes his card for one of the Smartcarts, and wheels it outside. His dad, nervous about safety in the city, had given him cash to take a cab to campus. Normally, Kurt would just happily pocket the money and figure out his own way to get there, but he's mildly trepiditious about getting anywhere in the city. He hadn't been here in two years, and then he'd been with a teacher. They hadn't had to ride the subway, or take a taxi, or figure out the bus system. Mr. Schue had just loaded them on a charter at the Newark airport, and they'd ridden in air conditioned bliss to their hotel on 72nd street. He doesn't know how to get to Washington Square. . .doesn't even know how to get to 9th street.

So, rather than making some easy money, he holds tightly to the sheet of paper with his new address, and gets into the line to pick up a taxi.

It ends up costing him $45, which means that he gets to keep $15. He supposes that will pay for his breakfast with Rachel in the morning. He gets out of the taxi, struggling to lift his luggage out of the back. The driver doesn't help at all, just sits in the front seat, jabbering away in some foreign language on his Bluetooth. How rude.

"Hi, there!" a perky young blonde in a glaring neon pink t-shirt comes up to him. Though Kurt disdains her tacky dress, he does appreciate the Midwestern friendliness, and instinctively smiles at her.

"Hi," he says, a little shyly.

"You're a new student, right?" she asks, nearly bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. She throws a hand out at him, pumping his hand vigorously. "I'm one of the Move-In Makers. You have a whole bunch of registration stuff to go through, but if you'd like, I can get some of the guys to help drag your stuff to the dorm."

"That would be great," Kurt says in relief.

"Great," the girl says. "By the way, my name's Liz. I'm a second year, English major."

"Um, Kurt," he says in response. "Undecided, I guess."

"That's normal," Liz says, infectious grin still firmly in place. "I always think it's a good move for a freshman, anyway. How do you know what you want to do, when you haven't even started studying, right?"

She whistles sharply, and two boys, also clad in neon colored shirts, unwind themselves fro their leaning positions against the wrought-iron fences. Kurt finally takes a moment to breathe in the air, and look around. The buildings here are shorter, thick little brownstones, some with ivy crawling over them. Over the top, he can just see the glittering tops of some of the city's skyscrapers. He can't quite stop the grin from spreading across his face, even though he just knows that it makes him look like an ignorant cowpoke.

But he's here. In New Freaking York City. Tomorrow he's going to meet his best friend for coffee. The day after that, his boyfriend will be entering the city. And together, the three of them are going to conquer the city.

Xxx

Kurt's exhausted by the time that he finishes with registration, and ID photos, and class schedules and meal plans. All that he wants to do is unpack his luggage, sort his clothing, take a shower, and go to sleep.

Except that he's forgotten that he's living in a dorm.

He walks in, and his heart instantly falls. Because yes, of course he'd realized that his dreams of a loft apartment overlooking Broadway were just fantasies of a naïve child, but they'd still existed. He'd kind of accepted that it would be smaller than he'd anticipated, and that' he'd have to deal with a roommate, but never, not once, had he imagined this monstrosity.

His room has bunkbeds. Actual, honest to Gaga bunkbeds.

He realizes, on closer inspection, that they aren't actually bunkbeds, but lofted beds. Underneath is a computer desk, a small bookshelf, and a dresser, holding the mattresses aloft. He supposes that it's a little better than a bunkbed, but not by much. As he struggles to drag in his three suitcases, which the Move-In Makers had helpfully put in the hallway for him, he realizes with a sinking sensation that he has nowhere to put all his clothes. There's only a tiny closet against one wall, and the half dressers.

The walls are made of concrete slabs, painted a dull off-white color that totally clashes with his complexion. There's a sink against one wall, with just a tiny mirror above it. The window doesn't open when he tries it. He looks around in panic. Where's the toilet? Where's the shower?

And then it hits him, the words in the brochure, that he'd kind of just glossed over. He falls onto his bed, all of the excitement of unpacking slowly dissipating. He's going to have to leave some of his clothes in the suitcase, and they're going to get wrinkled and disgusting. He'd going to half to showering the same room was other boys, jus ta thin shower curtain separating hi from all of them. Blaine hasn't even seen him naked yet, and they've been dating for a year and a half. All of a sudden, all of these random guys that Kurt's never met are going to be seeing him shirtless, seeing him in a towel.

No, he reminds himself fiercely. No, you're going to have a fabulous time, and these worries are stupid and unfounded. You're in New York, and it's going to be the most amazing year of your life.

His mini-pep talk is broken off as the door swngs open, and a laughing boy falls into the room, followed by a pair of genially smiling old people. Kurt pushes himself up by his elbows, and wipes hastily at his cheeks, relieved that there aren't any tear tracks to wipe away.

"Hello," the woman says, brushing by the other two. She looks nice, her hair cut short, a nice chestnut brown. Kurt doubts it's her natural color, but it does complement her complexion well. "I'm Andrea, and this is my son, Timothy. You must be Timmy's roommate."

"I guess so," Kurt says with a self-conscious chuckle. He stands, and shakes her hand. "Kurt Hummel."

"Hey!" Timothy says, dropping his suitcase with a resounding clang. He moves up and hugs Kurt tightly, before he has any say on it, clapping him on the back. Kurt tries not to wince, but he secretly thinks he might bruise from the friendly gesture. "Nice to meet you, bro."

Oh. Oh, he's one of those guys. Kurt smiles at the other boy, carefully assessing features. Straight, clean look to him, all straight angles and Nordic heritage. He looks like a healthier, less nerdy version of the Dalton boys. His broad shoulders just scream of years playing football. He's missed a spot shaving.

"Well, we'll just be leaving you here," Tim's unannounced father says. He quickly hugs his son, before stepping back. "Have a great time at school, son."

Tim's mom takes a bit longer, but within minutes they're both gone, leaving just Tim and Kurt alone in the room. Awkwardly, Kurt motions to his suitcases.

"I haven't started unpacking yet. I guess we each just get half the closet?"

Tim chuckles at that. He stands and stretches, cracking his back as he does so, and exposing a small stretch of skin between the top of his pants and the bottom of his shirt. Kurt looks away respectfully. Not that he would be checking the guy out – Tim may be good-locking, but he's not _Blaine_ – but because he doesn't want to get a reputation already. He knows how it works. Because he's gay, everyone will assume that he's checking them out. It sucks, but he's learned to accept it.

"Don't worry about it," Tim says. "It looks like you have a ton of clothes. I just have jeans and t-shirts and whatever. I'll just throw them in my dresser. Or in a pile."

Kurt feels a sudden wash of affection for his new roommate, and his lack of desire to need closet space. "Thanks," he says. "I think I may have overpacked."

Tim immediately opens his suitcase, and begins pulling things out, so Kurt does the same, watching his new roommate surreptitiously out the side of his eye. The other boy hadn't lied – it really did appear that he'd only packed jeans and t-shirts.

After about five minutes, Tim pulls out an iHome, and his face lits up. "Hey, Kurt, you don't mind we if listen to some tunes, do you?"

"No, that sounds really good," Kurt says. So Tim plugs in the iHome and quickly scrolls through his iPod, before deciding on something and plugging it in. A minute later Queen is playing, and Kurt can't quite help but start to laugh. Tim glances at him.

"You don't like Queen?" he asks.

"No, no, that's not it," Kurt says. He starts hanging up his jackets and blazers. "It's just. . .my stepbrother loves classic rock."

"He's got good taste," Tim says. They both continue their work until Tim is done. Kurt has only finished half his first suitcase, and is trying to decide what pieces are most in need of extra care. He doesn't want to be disorganized. Tim clambers up into his bed, and leans back. His head brushes the ceiling, and his legs kick mindlessly.

"So, Kurt, tell me about yourself. Where you from?"

"I'm from Lima, Ohio," Kurt says. He frowns. Is that a stain on his white skinny jeans? It looks suspiciously like a chocolate smear, which means that it's all Finn's fault. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm from upstate," Tim says, waving his hand aimlessly. "Ohio, that's pretty far away. What made you come to NYU?"

"I've always wanted to live in New York City. College just seemed like the perfect time to start."

"Yeah. That makes sense. My whole family went here, so I'm just, like, a legacy or whatever. I'll probably rush. What about you?"

Somehow, Kurt doesn't think he iss talking about the Filene's Basement wedding weekend, or the Kleinfeld Christmas discount rush.

"Greek," Tim says helpfully. "Like a frat."

"Oh," Kurt says. He begins putting his underwear away, feeling very self-conscious, as the other boy is still idly watching him. "I'm not really into that. I was thinking about doing one of the theater groups, or the a cappella groups."

"You sing?"

"My high school glee club went to Nationals my junior and senior years."

"Wow, you must be really good," Tim says. Kurt just shrugs. He feels incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn't know this boy at all. He's tired and exhausted, and more than a little bit overwhelmed, and he just doesn't feel like doing all the small talk just then.

He's saved from having to say anything else as his phone buzzes with a new message. He grabs it immediately, grinning as he sees that it's from Blaine. Tim snorts.

"That your girlfriend? You totally have that look on your face."

"Um. . ." Kurt doesn't really know what to say. He doesn't want to lie, and he absolutely doesn't want to deny who he is. At the same time, he's going to have to live with this guy for the next eight months. What if he's some kind of a homophobe? Even if he's not, what if it makes him uncomfortable. Instead of answering Tim, Kurt just opens his message.

_**Hope everything's going well. See you in three days! Love you. . .COURAGE**_

"Not a girlfriend," Kurt says, shutting his phone with a sharp click. "My. . .um. . .my boyfriend, actually."

Tim doesn't meet a beat. "How long have you two been together?"

This time Kurt's lips really do break into a broad smile. He can talk about Blaine for hours, literally, and he feels some of the weight that he's been holding on his shoulders fall. He's been telling himself over and over again, for the last few weeks of summer, that he has nothing to worry about in New York, that people will be accepting and that it will be awesome, but it's still been there. . .the fear that he'll never put McKinley behind.

"Year and a half," Kurt says. "But we were friends before that."

"You guys didn't break up after high school?" Tim asks. He lays back on the bed, wrapping his arms behind his head. "My girlfriend totally dumped me after graduation because she didn't want a long distance thing."

"No. He's actually coming to the city," Kurt says. "He's going to Columbia."

Tim whistles. "Smart."

Kurt is finishing up with his socks when Tim swings down from his top bunk. "Bro, I'm starving," he says. "Come with to get some food from the cafeteria?"

Kurt glances at his two still-full suitcases, at the half-empty closer. He really wants to finish unpacking, and then maybe call Blaine. He wants to set up his computer and get on facebook, to check his plans with Rachel, and he wants to hang up the pictures he's brought, of his family, and Glee, and his boyfriend.

Instead of doing those things, he gives Tim a tight smile, and nods. "Sure," he says.

After all, it's time for Kurt to start putting Ohio behind him, and to get into the New York state of mind. Which means making new friends, or at least nourishing this budding friendship with his roommate. Tim grins, all white teeth and sparkling blue eyes.

"Cool," he says, and h

**A/N: Oh, Kurt, how will you do in the new world of college? And how will Rachel do? And Blaine? **

**COMING SOON: Rachel falls in love with Lincoln Center, Blaine goes apartment shopping, and Kurt finally gets a chance to wander through the city.**


	2. Lincoln Center: Rachel

13:57

**A/N: So, basic setup will be a Kurt chapter, then a Rachel chapter, then a Blaine chapter, and then a Santana chapter. With an occasional Finn chapter thrown in for good measure. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy! Quite a bit different from my normal AU stories, which are all death and destruction and atomic bombs. This one is. . .well, there's still angst. Each character get his/her own arc. Anyway. . .reviews are love!**

Oh, God. It's so beautiful. It's beyond beautiful. It's heaven, she must be in heaven. Or asleep. She can't bear to think that it's all a dream, because if it is, then she'll be perfectly content to remain in this coma for all of time. An IV can keep her nourished, a tube can do all of her breathing for her, and every now or again a male nurse can roll her over to prevent her getting bedsores. Finn can visit her and leave flowers and. . .

Oh, right. Rachel sighs. The one reason that she really hopes that this isn't a dream. She turns to Marion. "Pinch me," she orders.

"Gladly," Marion says. She reaches out two fingers and not only pinches Rachel, but actually pulls and twists a little. It _hurts_.

It does, however, confirm that this is not a dream. That Rachel Berry is, in fact, standing in front of the Lincoln Center fountain with other members of the Julliard class of 2016. The chandelier that she can see glistening in the upper echelons of the Met is really there, the broad sign promoting _South Pacific_ is really there, and the admittedly industrial looking building that houses the New York Ballet is really there.

"Some day, I may be performing in the center," Rachel sighs. Admittedly, her dream had always been Broadway. But those had been the young, innocent, foolish dreams of a child. After having toured the facilities at Lincoln Center, she was nearly certain that her talent would be more fully appreciated by the elite class that attend these shows, as opposed to the tacky tourists who flock to Times Square. Lincoln Center has valet parking: Broadway has little plastic folding chairs set up in the middle of the street.

"Yeah, well I'll be performing there in a month," Marion says smugly, popping her gum. Rachel glances at the other girl. She doesn't really understand her roommate: Marion is a pretty girl, about a foot taller than Rachel, with thick, wavy dark hair and hooded blue eyes. But she has tattooes, and far too many piercings, and wants to be a concert cellist.

A cellist, really. Where's the glory in that?

"There's a showcase in a month?" Rachel asks.

"Yup. For the instrumentalists, anyway. Then comes the drama majors, then the dance majors, and I think you vocalists don't perform until Parent's Weekend."

Rachel grins at that. It's absolutely perfect: her dad's will be here to appreciate all of the sacrifices that they'd undergone to see their baby girl reach the true pinnacle of the world. The group of students starts trudging together toward the Met, and Rachel skips a little to keep up.

She had done extensive research before applying to schools in New York, of course. Julliard had been on the top of her list, followed closely by NYU, Columbia, and Fordham, all the way down to her safety schools of Hunter, Queens, and Bronx Community. When she'd gotten accepted to Julliard, she'd done her due diligence in researching the facilities, the academics, the performance opportunites, the prestigious alumni connections, and the reputation. What she hadn't research was the Metropolitan Opera House.

Now, as she walks in, she feels more at home than she had since junior year, when she and Kurt snuck into the Wicked theater. The front glass doors open into a massive atrium, all rich red carpet and twisting staircases. She draws in a sharp breath as she stares up at the snowflake chandeliers littered across the ceiling. The entire room is opulent, rich and expensive. She doesn't even have to close her eyes to imagine the men in tuxedos, escorting women in silk and velvet. Admittedly, her vision includes 80s style sleeves, which are probably out now (Kurt will tell her for sure: she'll have to remember to ask him tomorrow).

"Oh sweet Grilled Cheesus," she mutters, eliciting a clipped laugh from Marion. She ignores the untowardly girl, and just continues to sigh. "This. . ._this_ is where I belong."

"I thought you wanted to do musical theater," Marion says. "This is the opera house, Pippin."

Rachel ignores her roommate (hmm, her dads had warned her to try and befriend new people. . .oh well) and pushes her way to the front of the tour.

"Excuse me," she says, raising her hand. Dean Doward raises an eyebrow at her, which she assumes means that she has his full permission and encouragement to speak. "Will we be able to see the stage here?"

"Unfortunately, no," Dean Doward says. "The Met has such extensive staging that, in the beginning of the season, as now, they simply don't have room to let an aspiring group of first year students tramp around." A loud groan goes up from all of the students, including Rachel. The dean raises one hand, a slight smile on his face. "Don't worry," he says. "Those of you in the voice program will have an opportunity to sing your first audition pieces here in just under a month."

A thrill runs up Rachel's spine. She's going to sing here. In a month. Here. And not by sneaking in, or pretending to be a Munchkin, but by sheer divine right. Still. . .she really wants to see it, right now. Wants to confirm that all of the grandeur so apparent in the lobby is reflected in the performing space.

When Dean Doward and the students move to the right, to view an art gallery – an art gallery, right in the Met! – Rachel dashes to the left.

She gets lost several times, going into souveneir shops and offices, and once even a bathroom before the finally finds a door leading to some stairs. It's dark, and there's something deliciously rebellious about it. She grins toothily, and begins bounding down the stairs. Take that, Noah Puckerman, she thinks fiercely. Rachel Berry, breakin' the rules.

It's been at least ten minutes, and she knows that she should just head back. The group will probably leave without her, or somebody will notice her absence. But she's so close now, and she just knows that these stairs are going to lead her somewhere magical. So she keeps her hand on the wall, guiding her down into the darkness.

She feels like Orpheus leaving the Underworld. Between one step and the next the world changes. One moment she's on the stairs, and the next moment she's in the middle of a garden. There's a mossy little mound beneath her feet, and cobweb strewn treebranches dance overhead. A charming little bridge is over a trickling brook. Oh, this place is magical!

It takes her a moment to realize that she hasn't somehow transcended dimensions, that instead, the charming landscape is all prop and backdrop. As she walks she sees a tower, strangely out of place in the fairyland, and beside it, a gingerbread house. There's a chariot, and a hovel, prison chains and old Victorian beds. Pieces from different operas literally coat the ground of the backstage area, and she has to carefully pick her way over and across until she reaches the stage.

It's small. McKinley even had a bigger stage, and she feels a sudden rush of disappointment. She takes one small step, tiny, and then another, until she's standing in the middle of the half moon stage. Then, finally, she looks up from her feet.

Oh.

_Oh_.

It's nothing like Broadway. The seats ring the stage, and the auditorium is immense. She strains her eyes, but in the dim light of the fluorescent emergency bulbs, she can't even see the past the second balcony, can't even see the back walls. She counts seven heights of exit signs. Glancing up, the jeweled ceiling is breathtaking, little mosaic tiles. And oh. . .more chandeliers.

The stage is bigger here, as she stands on it, and she wonders how she ever imagined that it was small. She tiptoes forward, and glances down into the orchestral pit area. It's big enough for a full orchestra, not the tiny area reserved for a dozen instruments that had been on Broadway. She doesn't think that this theater will ever have gum stuck under seats, or candy rappers on the floor

Is she breathing? She isn't sure.

Barbra Streisand never stepped onto this stage, nor Whitney Houston. She doesn't think that Patti Lupone's been here, either, although something prickles in her mind about that. She'll have to ask Kurt. All of the people that she'd looked up to in the past have never stood where she is standing right now.

But Placido Domingo has stood here. Sarah Brightman. Renee Fleming.

All of a sudden Rachel has an intense desire to run home and start digging through Julliard's extensive collection of opera CDs and DVDs. She needs to find some new idols, needs to start training her voice to do things that it's never done before, to reah heights unimaginable.

But first, she needs to find her group again.

Xxx

"Oh, Kurt, you should have seen it, it was amazing! One day I'm going to perform there. You'll come watch me, won't you? Oh, and do you know if Patti Lupone ever sang at the Met? Because I couldn't figure out if she had or not, and I was relatively certain that you've read her biography, so of course if anybody would know it would be you!"

Rachel finally has to pause to take a breath. And a bite of her bagel. Which is smeared with delightfully thick, creamy, whole milk cream cheese. Now that she's going to become an opera sensation, instead of a Broadway kitten, she doesn't have to worry about her figure anymore.

Kurt, meanwhile, completely ignores her questions, just peering into the little display windows of Tiffany's. "Rachel, would you kill for a ring from Tiffany's, or what?"

"Oh, Finn could never afford one of those," Rachel tosses off, before biting into her bagel again. This time she moans a little. It's just that delicious.

"Blaine could," Kurt says. He shakes his head, and begins walking down the street. Rachel quickly skips to keep up with him. "This is amazing," Kurt says, under his breath.

"What? These bagels! I know! Although, I don't think it's the water anymore, I think it's the influx of Hebraic heritage. We're very well known for our treatment of unleavened breads."

"No," Kurt says. He's looking at something across the way, in Central Park. Rachel glances that way, too, curious what he's looking at. She doesn't see anything, except the rows of horse carriages that line the cross street in front of the park. She screws up her nose as one of the horses defecates. She knows that carriage rides in the park are supposed to be romantic, but she thinks that they must smell terrible.

One of the carriages is just starting off through the park. There are two people sitting in it, of course, a pair of men who look to be in about their mid-30s. Rachel smiles a little, and glances at Kurt.

"Yeah," she says. "It is pretty amazing."

They walk in companionable silence for a while, crossing the street and walking along the park, not actually in it, because there will be children and mud inside, and Rachel knows that Kurt doesn't care for either of them. So they just stroll down Museum Mile, Rachel smiling at the little old men and women sitting on the park benches, and Kurt gawking at the Park Avenue houses.

"Blaine got in early," Kurt says, apropos of nothing. "I'm going out to dinner with him and his parents tonight. At Craft, Tom Collichio's restaurant. Would you like to come?"

Rachel Berry's heart grows two sizes. It's hard to imagine a time when Kurt wasn't her best friend, when they didn't giggle about boys together, and have morning coffee dates, and listen to hours of Broadway recordings. She knows that he really just wants her there as backup – he's never gotten alone well with the Anderson's, who for some reason absolutely adore Rachel – but it stills warms her to know that he wants her at dinner with his boyfriend's family.

Still, it's regretfully that she says "I can't. I have a Skype date with Finn."

Kurt laughs at that. "Good luck. Last time I Skyped Finn, he couldn't figure out where the camera was, and spent the whole time talking into the keyboard."

Rachel frowns at that. The entire purpose of having a Skype conversation is, of course, to be able to _see_ her boyfriend's face. Although he does have very nice hair, looking at it doesn't really do much for her. Kurt pats her arm consolingly.

"Still," he says, "it will be better than spending an entire dinner listening to Mr. Anderson talk about football, and Mrs. Anderson asking for fashion tips, and then looking horrified when I give her some."

Rachel isn't so sure that Kurt is right about that. She hasn't talked to Finn since leaving Ohio. She'd been busy settling in to Julliard, and his mom had been dragging him to Targets all over the state, trying to set up his dorm room. Plus, they'd both agreed that if long distance was going to work, they'd have to be less needy.

Rather, Rachel had said that, and Finn had just nodded.

She's a little worried about talking to him, honestly. It's only been a week, and she hasn't really had time to miss him. Besides, she's been so busy, registering and signing up for classes, and touring all of the media outlets. But she knows that it will be different as the year goes on, as other girls start going out with guys, as Blaine and Kurt go back to being hopelessly cuddly and cutesy. It will be different tonight, sitting in her dorm room talking to him on Skype, with a roommate in the background.

"Let's not talk about this," she says, and her voice is a little tight. Kurt glances at her, a surprised light in his eyes, and pats her arm comfortingly.

"Okay," he says gently. "Have you decided what look you're going for this year? If you're interested in opera, I would suggest maybe something with a little Italian twist to it. . ."

xxx

_It's a tiny airport, just two terminals, and only a five minute line through security. Rachel's dads are sitting at one of the small coffee tables just outside the security checkpoint. They're glancing over every few minutes. Her dad has glistening eyes, and his shoulders keep giving weird little shudders, but her papa just pats his hand consolingly and reads the paper._

_ Carole, Finn, and Burt are there, too, of course. Kurt's too busy with his own packing to accompany her to the airport, and they'll see each other there, too, of course. Carole engulfs her in a hug._

_ "Oh, honey," she breathes into the top of Rachel's hair. "We're going to miss you so much. Give me a call, sometimes, and let me know how you're doing."_

_ "I will," Rachel says, and she's completely honest. Carole's become like a mom to her. She loves Rachel, not because of Finn, but for her own reasons. The older woman tightens the hug for a moment, and then goes to join her dad's at the table._

_ Burt is next, and he kind of awkwardly pats her head. "You're a nice girl, Rachel," he says gruffly. "I'm real glad that Kurt will have you, in New York."_

_ "I'm just glad that I'll have Kurt," Rachel says again, astounded by her own honesty. Burt smiles at that, and squeezes her shoulder._

_ And now it's just her and Finn. He's standing there kind of awkwardly, shoulders scrunched forward, hands stuffed in his back pockets. He's scuffing his feet, and staring at them intensely, refusing to meet her eyes. Luckily he towers over her, so it's an easy thing to sidle up next to him and peer up._

_ "Hey, you," she says._

_ "Hey," he says, and sniffs. Rachel blinks three times in rapid succession. Is Finn. . .is he crying?_

_ Then, suddenly, he reaches out and engulfs her, pulling her close to his body. "I'm going to miss you so much," he says._

_ "I'm going to miss you, too," she says, not quite sure what's bringing all of this on. She's going away, of course, but so is he. _

_ "Just. . .don't forget about me," he says. "I know that you'll be in New York City, and there's going to be all these fancy guys, and some of them will be. . .but. . .just don't forget about me, okay?"_

_ "Oh, Finn. I could never forget about you." And then, because she can't quite help herself, she sings a few lines of Hopelessly Devoted._

_ "You'll call me, right?" he asks her._

_ "Finn Hudson, we will be Skyping weekly," Rachel says firmly. "It will be like a date. I will heat up a lean cuisine, and we will have dinner together."_

_ "Okay," Finn says, grinning a little awkwardly. "Maybe Kurt can show me how to make that work on the computer."_

_ Rachel winces a little at that. But then Finn reaches forward, and he's kissing her, and none of it really matters, anyway. They'll get through long distance, and they'll see each other at Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and spring break, and then all summer._

_ If they made it through slushies, and McKinley, Jesse and Quinn, they can make it through anything._

Xxx

Rachel is a little nervous as she signs on to her computer. Marion is lying back on her bed, legs crossed and magazine held stalwartly in front of her face. She has her ipod plugged in, and his nodding her head to the music.

The little call button beeps, and Rachel quickly accepts. The next second, Finn's face is lighting up the screen.

His hair is sticking up all over the place, and he's kind of off-center, but it's him, all crooked smile and confused line between his eyebrows.

"Hey!" he says excitedly. "I figured it out all on my own! Hold on a second, I have to text Kurt!"

And then, just like that he's gone, off in the distance somewhere, rummaging around for his phone. She can hear him muttering to himself, and although she kind of wants to be mad that he's doing this all wrong, she can't. Because it's just so _Finn_.

Marion leans over the edge of her bed, peering down at Rachel's computer. "That your boyfriend's ass?" she asks. Rachel bristles.

"Yes, in fact it is."

"Cute."

The tall girl unfolds herself from the bed, still carrying the magazine. "I'm just going down to Lucy's room," she says. "Give you some time with your boytoy. Just don't do anything I wouldn't."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't masturbate on my bed."

Rachel's face is bright red by the time Finn returns. "Hey," he says, a little breathless. "Sorry about that. Kurt bet me a week of doing dishes that I wouldn't be able to get it right on the first try, but I totally did."

"That's wonderful, Finn," Rachel says. "So how is school?"

Finn's face lights up even more, and he scotches in closer to the camera. He isn't looking at the camera, now, and he's so close to the computer that she can't quite see the top of his head. Still. He's blathering on about Move-In, and how a trunk fell on his head, and how he played Frisbee with guys in the Quad, and how he stubbed his big toe, and how they have unending ice cream in the cafeteria. There are a thousand things Rachel wants to tell him – about her epiphany at the Met, walking in Central Park, Julliard. . .

But, she realizes with a start, that can wait. Because right now her boyfriend is excited, and she kind of just wants to listen to him. Which, for Rachel Berry, is really saying something.

**A/N: Rachel, you are so in love. Also. . .opera? Really? How **_**can**_** you abandon your Broadway dreams? **

**COMING SOON: Next chapter is just fluff. It is pure, Klaine fluff. I feel so ashamed.**


	3. Tony di Napoli: Blaine

13:57

**A/N: Thanks so much for all of the favorites and alerts! A few more reviews maybe? Just maybe? Anyway. . .enjoy!**

It's the seventh apartment that they've seen, and Blaine's getting kind of tired of it. He's perfectly willing to live in the Columbia dorms, and honestly thinks that it would be a nice way to get to know some of the other students, but his father is adamantly against it. He kind of has a point, with how little room there is in the dorms – not even enough for every freshman – and since Blaine has the means, he shouldn't begrudge some kid with financial aid a place to stay.

That's all well and good, but Blaine just knows that isn't the real reason they're walking all over Morningside Heights looking at one bedrooms. It's status, to his dad, who's already upset that Blaine didn't follow in his footsteps to Princeton.

His mom, on the other hand. . .she isn't happy at all that her little boy is going so far away for college. She'd tried to convince him to go to Dayton, a nice, conservative Catholic school close to home. She definitely doesn't want him living all alone in the city, and keeps asking if he's absolutely sure that he and "that nice Rachel girl" don't want to share an apartment.

It's the same thing with every place that they see. His dad inquires about the square footage and the crown molding, and his mom nervously asks about the doormen and the security. Blaine just wanders around, because honestly, all of the housing is about the same. White walls, hardwood floors, and tiny, cabin-like kitchens. It's not like he's going to live here forever.

It's finally on apartment number eight that he snaps. It's a nice place, just across from St. John's Cathedral, and only a few blocks from school. His dad is running his fingers along one of his doors, and his mother is worrying about whether an ax murderer could climb the fire escape.

"It's fine, Mom," Blaine says decisively. "Dad, come on. They're all pretty much the same. Let's just pick one and go. We still have to get furniture before dinner."

"We'll just move dinner back, son," his dad says. "I'm sure they'll be able to bump our reservations."

Blaine just sighs, and pulls out his phone to text Kurt. His boyfriend absolutely hates last minute change of plans, and sometimes he thinks that his parents do this just to put the other boy completely out of whack. He quickly warns Kurt that dinner will be moved back. The response is almost instantaneous.

_**More time to perfect the coif. 3**_

Blaine smiles and pockets the phone again. His parents are conferring anxiously, while the broker just keeps his hands politely clasped, a smile on his pointed face. Blaine strolls over to look out the window.

New York City. It's never been a dream of his to live here. He's always just kind of assumed that this is how it will work out. His dad has always had his future laid out for him. Four years at Princeton, where he'll major in political science. Then he'll either intern for a Senator, or go straight to law school, preferably Yale. Three years later he'll be running for office, or becoming an associate at a Chicago law firm.

Of course, being gay put a crimp in some of those plans, but his father seems completely content to just ignore that and forge on ahead. His mother, meanwhile, just likes to remind him about that "nice Rachel girl."

Looking at the top of St. John's, however (only recently finished), he can't quite keep a smile off his face. New York was always just an eventuality, not a dream, but he still can't quite keep from being completely excited. The entire city just screams of possibility, and he can't keep his brain quiet, thinking about all of the things that he'll do. Broadway shows, ice skating in Central Park, Shakespeare, walking the Brooklyn Bridge, shopping for Rolexes in China Town. . .maybe, he thinks excitedly, he'll even save someone from being mugged!

"All right, this will be fine," his dad is telling the broker. As the two head downstairs to the lobby to sign the paperwork, Blaine suddenly finds himself pressed against his mother, who is now wailing something about serial killers, cannibals, and homeless people.

"Mom, I'm going to be _fine_," he protests.

"But you're living in _Harlem_. I have watched the movies! I know what happens in Harlem. There are gangs, and Puerto Ricans, and. . .and. . ." she suddenly takes a deep breath and bursts into song. "_Here come the Jets, and we're gonna beat, every last buggin gang on the whole buggin'g street!"_

Blaine just stares at her in disbelief. Is she singing West Side Story to him? Really?

"Mom," he says patiently. "It's not Harlem, it's Morningside Heights. It's like. . .the Upper, Upper West Side. It's an Ivy League school, Mom. . .they don't let their students get murdered by 1960s Puerto Rican gang members."

"Well, good," she says, sniffing away a tear. "Now then, let's see if we can talk your dad into just buying some simple IKEA furniture for this place. It really _is_ too small for the Stickley set we were thinking about. . ."

xxx

It turns out that Craft absolutely does _not_ move reservations back, so they end up at Tony diNapoli's instead. Blaine thinks it's absolutely fantastic. The steakhouse sounded okay, but the family size portions being passed around the table are way better. He loves Italian food, loves the cliché, twinkly Christmas lights, and loves the fact that it's all very reminiscent of a loud, family-oriented scene from Lady and the Tramp.

Plus, he really enjoys watching Kurt eat spaghetti.

"So, Kurt, have you met anyone at NYU?" Blaine's father asks nonchalantly in the middle of the dinner. Blaine's head spins so fast that he thinks he'll get whiplash, and he knows that he probably looks like the little girl from the Exorcist, but he just can't believe that those words came out of his father's mouth. Dinner had actually been going _well_ for once – no awkward mentions of how Kurt was such a good "friend" or even a mention of Rachel.

Kurt, however, just smiles back pleasantly. "Of course," he says, and Blaine tries to ignore the triumphant glance that his parents shoot each other. Kurt, however, is just smiling mischieviously at Blaine. "My roommate is pretty great, actually, and I think that I'll be really good friends with his ex-girlfriend. Oh, and I met Alex, who's transgendered and halfway through his operations."

Blaine kind of enjoys the queasy looks that his parents are exchanging. Kurt gasps, as though suddenly having an epiphany.

"Oh! You meant like. . .like a potential boyfriend? Well, I did meet this one guy. . ." Blaine kind of splutters a little at that, but Kurt is still grinning, so he figures that it's going somewhere. "He doesn't go to NYU, but he is in the city. We have a lot of the same interests, and he's absolutely _gorgeous_." Kurt lets out a breathless little sigh. "In fact, I think I'm in love with him."

"Think?" Blaine asks, quirking up one little eyebrow. Predictably, Kurt blushes. Meanwhile, Blaine's parents look pleased again. Really? It's hard to believe that anyone's parents could be this excited to hear about their child's significant other cheating.

"All right, I'm sure I'm in love with him," Kurt says, and turns a beautific smile on the elder Anderson's. "His name's Blaine. Maybe you know him? I believe he's your son."

Blaine cracks up, and his mother, at least, has the good grace to look slightly ashamed. His dad actually smiles, a bit.

"Okay," he says. "Fair enough. I was a bit out of line."

Blaine bites his lip to protest that, actually, his dad was a _lot_ out of line, but Kurt's caught his hand under the table, and is gently squeezing it. So Blaine calms down, too, and just enjoys the rest of his meatballs.

Mmmm. Balls.

Then he chokes a little, because Kurt is staring at him, and oh _God_ can Kurt read his mind? Now everybody is staring at him, but that's probably because his eyes are bulging out of his head, and he's making kind of gross choking noises. And – ow, _ow_, Dad, the vicious back slaps really aren't helping.

Eventually he manages to swallow the bite. His mom just stares at him for a long moment.

"What if you're eating a meatball in your apartment all by yourself and you choke and _die_?" she wails. "Now you have given me something new to worry about!"

Blaine rolls his eyes and asks if they're getting dessert.

After dinner his parents head back to their hotel, though not before reminding Blaine that he should send them a text when he gets back to his new apartment, and that the text had better come before eleven, and that they'll be meeting him for an eight o'clock breakfast in the morning before their flight back. Blaine smoothly assures them he'll do all of those things, and then promises he'll take a taxi back, instead of the dirty, crime-ridden subway.

"But don't get in a cab with one of those Middle Easterners," his mom says insistently. "They're all terrorists!"

And then finally, _finally_, he and Kurt are alone. Their hands automatically gravitate together, fingers interlacing, swing back and forth a little with the movement of their bodies.

"Sorry about that," Blaine says. Kurt smiles.

"Your parents are. . .interesting," Kurt says.

They instinctively walk toward the Park, admiring all of the Upper East Side brownstones as they walk. Blaine pauses after about two blocks, staring at one particularly beautiful building. There's chandelier light from the second floor window, and a warm glow coming from what he assumes is a bedroom on the third floor. He can hear the piano playing from one of the open windows.

"We'll live in one of those, someday," Blaine says, squeezing Kurt's hand. He expects a snappy retort, a comment about the décor, or the location, or. . .or. . ._something_, but there's no response. He turns to look at Kurt, who is staring at the house with tears running down his face.

"Oh, _Kurt_," Blaine sighs, tracing the tear tracks and thinking furiously about what he'd said. He can't find a hurtful word in it, and realizes with a sinking heart that dinner with his parents must have been more upsetting than he'd realized.

"I'm so stupid," Kurt says furiously, running his wrists furiously across his fact to get rid of the tears. "I don't know why I cry over absolutely _everything_."

"Kurt, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Kurt says, and grabs Blaine's hand. "Nothing. Everything is _perfect_. We're in New York, and I love you. That's all."

Blaine smiles, staring at his boyfriend. Kurt does cry too much. He cried the first time they met, and he cried after they lost Regionals junior year. He cried when his bird died, cried when they graduated, cried after singing a duet at Nationals. He cried at Disney movies, romantic comedies, and even the occasional war movie. Kurt cries too much, but he's so beautiful when he does it, that Blaine can't even mind."

He just leans forward, gently brushing his lips against his boyfriends. "I love you, too," he whispers. Kurt just leans into him, and they both stare at the building for a minute or so.

"All right," Kurt says finally. "But when we live here, we're totally going to have to change the wallpaper."

Blaine laughs in agreement, before tugging his boyfriend back down the street. They find a Starbucks just off Park Avenue that is amazingly still open. It's one easy glance between them and they're walking in to get some caffeine for the cab right across town.

Kurt is pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, laughingly insisting that he's going to pay this time, even if Blaines' parents are loaded and his dad is just a mechanic. Blaine pretends that he's going to let him, but they both know that when they get to the register Blaine will flash a charming smile, and the hapless barista will be under his spell. Nothing that Kurt will say will matter.

Blaine thinks that one day this move will probably piss off the other boy, but for right now they both know that Blaine has the money and Kurt, quite frankly, does not.

Things don't go as planned, though, from the minute they reach the counter. Neither of them are looking across it, Kurt focusing too much on pulling his wallet out of his tight, tight jeans, and Blaine focusing too much on his boyfriend's perfect little tongue, that's poking out a little as he concentrates.

"Hi, dolphins!" The barista says cheerfully, and both of their heads jerk up in surprise.

"Brittany?" Kurt gasps as the same time that Blaine asks "what are _you_ doing here?"

Brittany pouts. "I'm working, obviously. I thought you could tell by the apron?"

It turns out that Brittany and Santana are both living in the city, down in Tribeca. It's Kurt who suggests that the two girls join Rachel, Blaine and himself for dinner the following weekend. Brittany agrees happily, of course, and Blaine just grins.

New York should be called the city of miracles, because it's almost impossible for him to acknowledge that they're all here, now, in the city. It does hurt a little that Santana didn't tell him, although there's a little, niggling nugget at the back of his head suggesting that just maybe she had, and maybe he hadn't cared enough to listen.

Either way, they stay in the coffeeshop until closing, and then they all grab a cab together. The driver glances back at them like they're insane, all piled into the back, and all headed to different sections of the city. Kurt is humming a little under his breath, and Brittany is trying to count the trees as they go by. Blaine knows that he's smiling like an idiot, so it's possible that the cab driver is right, and they are all a bunch of nutters.

Xxx

He feels an intense weight lift off his shoulders the minute that he walks into the apartment. It doesn't feel like home, yet. Not with the white walls, and the empty floors. It does, however, feel like freedom. It's the first time in his life he's felt completely free from his parents.

He does a little dance in the middle of the room, arms outstretched and feet tapping a quick beat on the floor. His arms in the air, and he suddenly feels the intense need to just _sing_.

After a rousing outburst of _Last Friday Night_ he wanders into the bedroom. It's as bare as the rest of the apartment, just the kings sized bed and a dresser. His dad had been suspicious when he'd wanted the bigger bed, but Blaine had just innocently said that he wanted a bed that would fill up the room, so he wouldn't feel as lonely living all by himself. His mother had instantly given in. There's a small note lying on top, and Blaine curiously goes over to pick it up.

He recognizes the blocky cursive instantly as being from his dad, and considers not even reading it for a moment. But he'd been surprisingly cool on the trip, other than the horrible trip-up at dinner, so Blaine sits down on the bed and opens the letter.

It's three pages of instructions. Instructions on how to comport himself, what classes to take, where to eat, who to talk to. And then, on the last page, instructions on how to keep his "alternative lifestyle" out of the public eye. And then a pamphlet on STDs and gay sex.

Blaine doesn't know whether to be touched or offended. It's the most accepting his dad has ever been. On the other hand. . .STDs? Really?

He's about to throw the entire thing out when he realizes that there's still something sitting in the bottom of the envelope, something small and heavy. He turns the envelope over, and a small, bronze key spills out. There's a piece of masking tape on it, with writing on it. Blaine squints to read the small writing, clearly written in his mother's script.

_For Kurt. When you're ready_.

When Blaine talks to his boyfriend that night, it's one of the few times when _he_'s the one crying.

**A/N: Short chapter. Man, when Blaine doesn't have an angst, he's kind of boring, eh? Anyway. . .so. Much. Fluff. **

**COMING SOON: Brittana in New York, bitches! Plus a reunion at Popovers, some sorostitutes, and the first hints of possible conflict.**

**Reviews are love!**


	4. Welcome Week: Santana

13:57

**A/N: Enter. . . Brittana! Craziness! For those of you who have read my other stories, you no doubt know that I have never had Brittana actually happen, so here's a first. Hopefully it works! Also: Yes, I know that Brittany has never said that she was going to move to New York after high school. But. . .in my magical universe here, they hooked up senior year and then when Santana moved to Tribeca, Britt went with her.**

** Hey, it could happen!**

Oh, God, the sweet, sweet nectar of caffeine. Santana wants to inhale it, she wants it injected straight into her veins, she wants to bathe in it.

"Drinking coffee makes you short," Brittany solemnly informs her. Santana ignores her as she downs the third cup of the day.

"Not drinking it makes me a bitch," she points out instead. "Especially when you wake me up at 5 in the morning. What on _earth_ is so important that I had to get up at five in the morning."

"Come on," Brittany says, standing and taking Santana's hand. The Latina briefly considers not going. She might need four cups, after all, since it still isn't even six o'clock. She also considers going back to the apartment. Which means, in essence, going back to bed, since it's the only piece of furniture that they have. Somebody _really_ should have informed her of how expensive Tribeca is, before she'd bought a plane ticket to hop on out here.

She considers all of these things, but ultimately she takes Britt's hand because, let's be honest here, there's never much of a choice when it comes to Britt. Santana would sell a lung for the other girl.

She does still grab a fourth cup of java before they leave, however.

Brittany leads her unerringly through the crooked, meandering streets, about that only part of the city that isn't perfectly laid out in grids, numbered or lettered in order. With anyone else, Santana would be bitching to now where they're going, yelling about getting lost, or screaming that she's gonna cut somebody. With Britt, she just enjoys the feel of the other girl's hand in her own.

Oh, no. The full-fledged lesbianism is totally turning her into a sap.

It's finally when Britt starts to slow down that Santana realizes where they've been headed. And if she's become a sap, then Britt is downright spewing maple syrup out of every orifice, because they've walked uptown to the Brooklyn Bridge. Sure enough, Brittany leads her onto the bridge, and they walk until they reach the first tower, and turn to watch the sun rise over the city.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" Santana asks, leaning back into Britt's arms.

"You were yourself," Brittany replies, placing a gentle kiss on her ear. That's all I ever wanted."

Xxx

Santana will never, ever tell anybody, but she kind of loves college. She actually looks forward to class in the morning, and kind of even enjoys doing her homework. She's surprised to find that she actually likes learning. Pace University is a completely different world from McKinley – no more dumbass jocks, or idiots who slow the whole class down. It's a brisk pace, and constant progress, and she kind of loves it.

When she gets to campus the second Monday, however, it looks like a circus. There are tents set up everywhere, and banners unfurled. She ignores all of it, and goes straight to her biology class, taking out her book and notes before even turning to talk to anyone.

"What's going on?" she finally asks her table mate. Val turns to her, a broad smile on her face.

"Welcome Week," she explains. "All of the student organizations are out there. I'm thinking about rushing Alpha Phi Alpha. What about you?"

Santana bites her lip and considers. She's never considered becoming a sorority girl, with the pink shorts and the pigtails. Sorority girls are vapid and stupid, all blond hair and bouncing boobs.

But then again, isn't that what cheerleaders are supposed to be, too?

Here's the thing: Santana had _loved_ being a Cheerio. She'd loved the looks that guys gave her when she walked by in her short skirt, she'd loved the instant popularity that came with slipping into a uniform. She'd loved the shallow, light friendships with the other girls on the squad, and she'd loved having people know who she was.

It wasn't like Glee, all deep feelings and living together, dying alone. It was fun and light, and made her feel desirable.

She's in college, now: she can completely reinvent her life, reinvent the way that people perceive her. She doesn't have to be the hot dyke in Glee: she can be the banging sorostitute, and God knows that she can rock the short shorts and Uggs.

"Maybe," Santana just says, rocking back in her seat and tapping her pen against her lips. "Maybe."

After class she wanders through the rows of student tables, most with big signs, tripod posters, words written in glitter pen. She sees some that she would never, ever consider: Toastmasters, United Nations, the Squirrel Club. And then she sees it. An entire corner filled with rainbows and decorated with the word Pride all over the place. There's a sign for PFLAG, and for LGBT and she almost cracks up when she sees that there's an a cappella group called Homo Explosion.

She almost goes over there. Almost. But then she sees the people standing by the tables. Guys that look like Kurt, and girls wearing flannel and rugby shirts. She can't go there. She still can't go to Indigo Girls concerts, and she hates Melissa Etheridge. She doesn't play golf, or softball or. . .

No. She knows who she is, and she's _proud_ of who she is, but her sexuality doesn't define her, and she knows what the people in those groups are. They're defined by their sexuality, and they let the worlds' perceptions of them harden them.

That kind of thing is all well and good for Kurt and Britt, but she doesn't belong with those people. She's _normal_.

As she continues walking, she passes by the Greek row, and now she is interested. She sees a sign for Alpha Phi Alpha, which Val had mentioned, and she almost wanders over, until she notices that everybody standing around the table is black. Perfect for Val, who is all chocolate skin and white teeth, but not so good for a fierce Latina.

She walks by two tables staffed by blond haired, blue eyed Nordic girls with dimples and feathers in their hair. She walks by a few 'roided up jocks, and then, oddly enough, a Jewish frat surrounded by guys who could be Jacob's brothers.

"_Que onda_?"

She pauses when she hears the Spanish, her ears instantly perking up. She turns around, and it's like there's a neon sign over the sorority. The girls all have dark hair and dark eyes, but their skin tones range from warm caramel to pale snow. There's reggaeton blasting from a boombox, and the girls are shaking their thangs. Santana grins toothily and walks over.

"What's this, In the Heights?" she asks. One of the girls snaps her fingers and juts out her hips.

"Don't you know it, _chica_," she says. "Throw in a little West Side Story and a few _cubanas_ and you got us down."

"Chill it, Felicidad," another girl says. She's only about four feet tall, and her face is utterly surrounded by crazy black curls. It kind of looks like she stuck her finger in a wall socket. She reaches out a hand and a smile toward Santana. "I'm Marisol. And this is Sigma Lambda Upsilon."

"The greatest Latina sorority on campus," Felicidad says.

"The _only_ Latina sorority on campus," Marisol corrects her. "Are you thinking about rushing?"

"Maybe," Santana says. "Let's hear your stick."

"Nah," Felicidad says. "We don't do stick. You want to know us, you gotta party with us. This Friday at the Grove."

She hands Santana a small piece of paper, presumably with directions and info on it, but Santana doesn't even get a chance to look at it before Marisol is butting in again.

"We're very inclusive," she says. "And Felicidad is right, we love to party. But Sigma is about more than that. A lot of us came from the streets, and we have a lot of initiatives to help young girls from the Projects."

Santana finds herself nodding. She's not from the Projects, obviously, but she can kind of understand. Lima Heights Adjacent was about as ghetto as one could get in McKinley – they had a cop car doing regular raids, whether there was a call or not. So she gets these girls, although she's still a little leery about signing up. She's heard the horror stories about sororities, and all of the hazing they make their pledges go through.

"You guys aren't going to make all the freshman strip or streak at this thing, are you?" she asks, raising one eyebrow. Felicidad claps.

"No, _hermana_, but that's an awesome idea! Talking about bonding and become one _familia_, eh?"

"Absolutely not," Marisol says. "All of the pledge work is kept strictly secret. Nothing humiliating until after Rush is over. Right now we just want to get to know the new girls, see if they'll fit in well with our sisterhood."

Santana is still considering. She has plans with Rachel, Blaine, and Kurt for Friday night, but that's just an early dinner. A party could be fun, and as much as she loves her roommate, she doesn't think she can stand another evening in, eating reheated Chinese food and watching My Little Pony reruns.

Still. She glances back at the rainbow flags unfurled in the air, whipping back and forth with all the rebellious pride of the students standing next to them. She wants to be back on the in crowd, and she's got to be honest, the idea of being with a bunch of girls who grew up like she did, in crazy Hispanic families, sounds pretty much awesome. But she spent an entire year of high school denying who she was, and it was the worst year of her life. She's absolutely not going to crawl back into the closet and live that out again.

So, as casually as she possibly can, she says, "yeah, maybe I'll drop in. Can I bring my girlfriend with me?"

"Is she hot?" Felicidad asks.

"Smoking."

"Then please do! You don't mind sharing, do you?"

"Ignore her," Marisol says. "Of course you can bring a guest."

Somehow, Santana ends up spending the rest of her break between classes at the Sigma table. Those hos may know how to dance to reggaeton, but she schools them when it comes to busting out the Shakira.

Xxx

"Dayumn, girls, all dressed up for us?" Kurt asks when Brittany and Santana exit the subway. Santana grins. She knows they look good. She's in the tightest black mini she could find, and a pair of stilettos that puts her almost a foot above Blaine's head. Brittany, meanwhile, eclectic as ever, is wearing a ridiculous pair of bellbottoms, and what Santana is pretty sure is a belt is working as a top.

"We're going to a Greek party after," Santana says breezily. "What about all of you?"

"There's a revival showing of _The Philadelphia Story_ at the Lincoln Center Theater tonight," Rachel says breathlessly. "We're going to go and recite all the lines together."

"I get to be Cary Grant," Blaine says, grinning widely. Santana rolls her eyes.

"Still as gay as ever, I see."

"Back at you, girlfriend," Kurt says cheekily, moving forward and linking his arm through one of hers. They all link together then, except for Rachel, no doubt looking like some crazy, cracked out hooker version of the Wizard of Oz. Santana thinks that Kurt probably has to be Dorothy.

"I feel like I should suddenly become gay," Rachel says, nervously biting at her lip. "Should I try and be bi for the night?"

"Please don't," Kurt laughs. "I really don't want to have to explain that one to Finn."

"This food place better be good," Santana notes idly as they begin walking down the street. "That was a thirty minute train ride from Tribeca."

"It's great!" Blaine enthuses. "Plus, it's just a few blocks down from my apartment. Which happens to currently be the home to two bottles of champagne. I thought it might be nice to celebrate all being here together."

Santana scoffs. It does sound nice, of course. It sounds considerate and charming, and so, so Blaine. She's actually thrilled that he came up with it, but she does have a certain image to maintain.

"No hard liquor?" she says. Blaine winks.

"I've got a can of salt, a bag of limes, and a bottle of Jose, just for you, Satan."

Oh, God yes. She turns to Kurt.

"I totally see what you see in this guy," she laughs. "Dreamy, drunkard, and he wears so much hair gel that if you're ever having a bad hair day you just have to swipe some off the top of his head."

"Hey now!" Blaine protests, but his smile is still firmly plastered on their face. "Wait. . .we're here."

He stops them outside of a . . .outside of a. . .okay, seriously, Santana doesn't even know what she's supposed to call this thing. It's in a normal building, but there are teddy bears and old lady pillows in the window. It looks like what she's always imagined Sandy Ryerson's trailer looked like.

"Are you an ax murderer?" she asks, because either Blaine has a thing for grandma's (which he probably doesn't, since he's been dating Kurt for the last however long) or he's planning on chopping them into little itty bitty pieces. She glances down the street. Whatever. If that's the plan, she and Britt can totally outrun the Munchkin, and Kurt will probably enjoy it.

"Okay, I know it looks a little kitschy," Blaine says. Kurt raises a bitchy eyebrow. "A _lot_ kitschy," he says finally. "But it's the best breakfast place in town."

"Did we stay up all night?" Brittany asks breathlessly. "Is it really morning already?"

"Oh my goodness, I adore having breakfast for dinner!" Rachel gushes. "Granted, it isn't nearly as healthy as a well-balanced menu, since it's usually predicated on carbs and fruit, but I just adore pancakes!"

Santana is still a little uncertain about this place, but she follows them in. They're quickly seated on a hideous paisley couch – the wraparound kind, that surrounds the tiniest table she's ever seen. She's not really sure how they're all supposed to eat.

The waitress hands out coffee cups before they've even finished sitting down, and begins pouring them in. Only Rachel is quick enough to stop her, putting one hand over the cup. "Just tea for me, please."

"Of course, dearie," the waitress says, finally prompting Santana to glance up, beyond the waitress' gingham apron. The woman (Dorie, her nametag says) is wearing a pair of horned classes, and a bouffant. Her hair is blue. Actual, honest to God old lady blue. Santana can't help but snort.

"I like your hair," she giggles. Blaine and Rachel glare at her, but she can't help herself, she really just can't. "You get along well with the Smurfs?"

The waitress just blinks at her, smiling a bit vapidly, and Santana realizes with a certain amount of glee that Dorie must be hard of hearing.

"So, Satan, why didn't you tell any of us that you were moving to New York?" Kurt asks, idly peering at the various spices in the middle of the counter. He finally picks one up, and sniffs at it. "Cinnamon," he says with a good degree of satisfaction, before handing it over to his boyfriend.

Santana shrugs. A thousand reasons fly through her head – she didn't want the hobbits to bring down her street cred, she didn't want to be dragged into any parades or theaters, she didn't want to take part in murder mystery dinners, she didn't want to be dragged down by the supreme amount of loser that was going to class in New York. She can come up with a dozen snappy retorts and insults, but something holds her back. Brittany reaches up, and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Santana sighs.

"I guess I was afraid that if people knew, it wouldn't really happen," she says. They all nod at her like she's said something incredibly sage, which is ridiculous.

"You should get a Popover," Blaine says. "That's what this place is famous for. They're these really good biscuit things, that poof up."

"Like your hair without gel?" Santana spits out. Then they're all laughing, and Santana's able to recline back in her chair.

After dinner they will go to Blaine's apartment, and get as drunk as five people can off two bottles of champagne. Maybe she will go to the party with Brittany. Maybe they'll all wander through Central Park with all the sense of invincibility that comes with being 18 years old and in love. Maybe they'll all pass out, waking up to take pictures of each other on iphones before piling together onto Blaine's massive bed.

Maybe it will be the best year of their lives. Maybe it will end in tears and funerals. But for right now, for one of the few moments of her life, Santana is perfectly happy to just take it as it comes, and consider whether or not she really wants to try something called a popover.

**A/N: And. . .fin! Ha, just kidding, but it is fin on the little prologue chappies. Next chapter starts the real conflict. Each character gets his/her own special arc. Plus there is a Klaine arc. Which. . .is kind of unfair, since Kurt and Blaine **_**also**_** get their own special little things. But, hey, Klainers gonna Klaine, right? **

**Hope you enjoyed it, and seriously, review! Oodles of thanks to those few who have. It really means a lot, and while seeing the alerts, favs, and overall readers is awesome, it's just not as fantastic as seeing a review (positive or negative!)**


	5. Bethseda Terrace: Kurt

13:57

**A/N: Yay, long chapter this time! Finally, some success! Also, last update for a while, as I'm off to NYC for the weekend. Ironically, it's also PRIDE, which just seems oddly appropriate whilst writing this story. Anyway, ENJOY!**

"_It's Friday, Friday, kickin' back on Friday_!"

Kurt groans and pulls the pillow forward, trying to muffle out the heinous noise. He and Tim, after discovering their vastly divergent musical tastes, have agreed to alternate who gets to pick up the wake-up music. When they'd first found out that they got up at the same time (Tim so that he could hit the gym before breakfast, while Kurt just wanted to make sure that he looked presentable for the day) it had seemed like great fortune. Now that Kurt had spent two weeks waking up to everything from Rebecca Black to Journey to Metallica, he decided that he'd rather have a roommate who got up hours later, requiring him to put his cell phone on vibrate and sleep with it under his pillow.

"Rise and shine, it's morning time!" Tim crows, flipping out of bed. He curses as he lands a little awkwardly, harder on his left foot than his right, but gamely hops out the door. Kurt just burrows his head deeper into his pillow.

"_Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday, today it is Friday, Friday. . ._"

Tim also finds it hilarious not to turn his music off immediately. Kurt just moans and falls out of bed, before struggling, still half tangled in his blankets, to turn it off. He staggers back to his own desk, and checks his phone for messages. Just one.

_**Good Luck at your Audition, high flying adored! **_

He grins and flips it shut. He sort of doesn't want to know what Blaine had been doing up at 3:30 in the morning, but just accepts that he and his boyfriend have a drastic different take on college life, and leaves it at that. He wanders over to his closet, and peers thoughtfully at the clothes hanging up.

He's organized them by fit and color, which makes it easier to pick an outfit, but today, in particular, is a tricky one. He has to come up with an outfit that shows that he's a smart, insightful young man (after all, they're picking lab partners in orgo today); that says that he's a versatile and talented actor (auditions for the season's first student production); and that he's individualistic and a valuable asset to a singing group (a cappella auditions, as well). It is a daunting task, even for the inimitable Kurt Hummel.

He considers texting Mercedes to get her take on it, but quickly discards that idea since it's only 6 am, and his best friend probably won't answer back for hours, anyway. He could call Rachel, as she'll definitely be up, but the last thing he wants is advice from a girl who dresses like a cross between Dora the Explorer and Rose from Golden Girls. And, of course, Blaine would just give his eternal answer of "you look good in anything!" (sometimes having a perfect boyfriend really sucks).

In the end, Kurt settles on a classic: skintight black jeans, a blue vest, black dress shirt, and silver bowtie. He winces a little when he sees himself in the mirror: the vest is just a little too reminiscent of some of Mr. Schue's tackier looks. It does kind of scream out "barbershop", though, which Kurt is hoping will give him a subliminal advantage in the a cappella auditions.

As if two months with the Warblers, and a year long stint as one of McKinley's Titan Tenors didn't already give him a distinct advantage. Although, admittedly, the Titan Tenors had been a bit of a disaster. . .they'd only performed twice, once at Mr. Schuester's Farewell Party, and once for Principal Figgins' son's First Communion. It had been Sam's idea, of course, building off "The Justin Bieber Experience" from the year before. Still, apparently a five man quintet made up of Kurt, Blaine, Finn, Puck, and Sam just didn't do it for people. They probably should have let Artie in. . .

Orgo went by as painfully as ever, leaving Kurt wondering, once again, why he hadn't signed up for the Rocks for Jocks class.

He has an hour after class before the first auditions, so he walks to Washington Square Park. It's a beautiful day, all light fluffy clouds in a robin egg sky. He sits down beside the fountain and closes his eye, just letting the sun's rays dance across his skin. He briefly wonders if he should put on sunscreen.

He's only been in the city a few weeks, and he's sure that there are a thousand amazing things that he hasn't seen, but he still doubts that he'll ever find anything that he loves more than this. NYU surrounds him, and just to the north he can see the peeks of the midtown skyscrapers. There are always old men in the park, sitting on benches, and at least one busker or two. He opens his eyes, and can't quite keep the dreamy smile off his face. A pair of men walk by, one in a business suit, the other dressed more casually. They're holding hands. A pair of golden bands glint on their hands, and they just look utterly. . .content.

Kurt wonders if that will be him, one day, walking around downtown. He'll be dressed more fabulously, of course, but other than that, he really, really hopes so. Is it wrong that he already has the inscriptions on the rings picked out? Just You And I Defying Gravity. He wedding, of course, will be in the spring, because cool colors look best with his complexion, and he'll wear a white tuxedo. Blaine, of course, will wear a more conservative black suit and. . .

Oh, dear God, he's let himself run away again. Still in a bit of a dreamlike fugue, Kurt grabs his phone out and types in a quick message.

_**Sitting in the park thinking about you. I love you.**_

The response back is almost instantaneous.

_**Sitting in PoliSci. Bored to death.**_

Kurt grins and slips the phone back into his bag, before standing up. There's only a few minutes before auditions begin, and he doesn't want to rush. The Student Activities building is just across the square, so it's a short walk. He doesn't even turn on his iPod – he just listens to the sounds of the city around him.

He's surprised to see the mill of people already inside the glass doors. He quickly grabs hold of the first girl he sees, a short, freckled mess with red hair zigzagging in every direction.

"What's going on?" he asks. "It looks like Macy's on their BOD sale."

"Auditions for _Rosencratz_," she says, looking at him critically. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

Kurt's mouth falls open. He knows that New York is a performer's dream – he knows that NYU in particular has a penchant for student involvement in the arts. But enver in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that this many students would be trying out for a play. There must be at least fifty of them, and those are just the ones who signed up for this audition time. McKinley was lucky to have fifteen students try out total.

"I thought this was a student production," He says, still talking to the same girl. She looks at him as though he's crazy.

"It is. . ." she's still looking at him appraisingly, before her face finally breaks into a broad smile. "Oh! You're a freshman! That explains it. Good luck. Freshman never make callbacks."

That is. . .a little nervewracking, actually, but Kurt can deal with tall odds. After all, he's part of a Glee club that took 12th at Nationals one year, and 2nd the next. He found the perfect boyfriend while living in Lima, Ohio. He was voted Prom Queen on year, and Prom King the next. Yeah, he knows a little something about beating the odds.

That doesn't make him any less nervous when he hears his name called fifteen minutes later and walks into the small office. Or. . .not an office, exactly, just a small room with no furniture other than a pair of chairs. Two students are sitting in them, a boy and a girl. They each have clipboards on their laps, and nothing else. They look up with near identically smiles as he walks in.

"Hi, Kurt Hummel, right?" the boy asks, white teeth flashing against dark skin.

"Since I was born," Kurt says chipperly, eliciting a laugh from the girl.

"Great," she says. "So I'm assuming that you took a look at the audition materials. Which monologue are you doing?"

"Hamlet's," Kurt says. They both nod at him encouragingly, placing their clipboards on their laps. Kurt shifts, feeling a bit self-conscious. This is so different from the community theater projects that he'd tried out for in the summer with Rachel. He's all alone here, with these two people judging him. And really, what right do they have to judge him? He looks at them critically. They're just students. Just like him.

But they're still smiling, and they're being so encouraging. It's like they're pulling for him, like they really want him to succeed. So Kurt takes a deep breath and begins.

"To be or not to be: that is the question. Whether 'tis better to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. . ."

He starts out shaky, and he knows it. He's reciting the lines, but he's not acting. By the third line, though, he has it down. He's back in his dorm room, sitting on the bed with Tim, reading the lines and laughing. Mercedes face is on the computer screen, squawking at him over Skype, and emo music is playing in the background to get him in the mood.

He may no be as depressed as Hamlet, but Kurt knows a little something about being forced into a position that doesn't feel right, about being told to love someone that he doesn't love.

And yeah, Hamlet was totally gay. Kurt still isn't sure whether the poor guy had a crush on Horatio or was jonesing for Laertes, but there's no doubt that Ophelia wasn't doing it for him. So, yeah, Kurt understands that, too.

He's through it almost too quickly, and the room suddenly comes back into focus. The boy has started writing on his pad, furious little scribbles, but the girl takes a moment to clap

"That was great," she says, her voice positive and excited. "Really great."  
>"Thanks," Kurt says, a little breathlessly. "Do you. . .do you have any notes for me?"<p>

"No," The girl says, laughter in her voice. "We don't really give notes at the initial auditions. Really, though, you did great. We'll be posting the callbacks on-line this weekend, so make sure you check back. You know the web address, right?"

"Yes, of course," Kurt says. Oh, God, did he just do a bow? He did. He totally just bowed. Nonetheless, he figures that it could have been worse. He could have curtseyed.

He collapses across the door as soon as he's walked out, his legs trembling. He's not an actor, and he knows that. He love musical theater, and he's always found it easier to connect via song. Or rather, he's always found it easier to attach songs to his emotions. Nonetheless, he feels like he's done a really great job, and there's a little skip to his step as he hurries out the door.

His phone rings almost immediately after exiting the building, and Kurt answers before looking at the caller, a little breathless. "Hello?"

"Kurt! Hello! How did your audition go? Did you take my notes into account? Because I really feel like considering the pain that Hamlet is going through and the envisioning of the death of his father also mirroring the death of his own spiritual self is really"

"It went great, Rachel," Kurt says, interrupting her before she gets carried away. "It really went well. But I can't talk right now, I have to get to my audition for the Vocaholics now."

"Oh, that's wonderful! Have you decided what you'll be using to sing? I highly recommend a ballad that really showcases your range, though perhaps a ballad from a more contemporary group in order to "

"Thanks, Rachel, you were a big help! I'll talk to you later!"

He shuts the phone before she has a chance to respond, and quickly hurries across the campus. He isn't really nervous about this performance at all. After all, he's heard recordings of the group, and while they are good, he thinks that the Warblers could kind of beat them. Then again, it's hard to imagine that anyone on earth is more dedicated to a capella than Wes and Thad, so he supposes that could account for it.

He hasn't decided what to sing yet, despite what he'd told Rachel. She'd insisted that he sing something sweeping and romantic. Blaine, on the other hand, recommended Top 40s. Mercedes voted for the Beetles, and Tim thought that something ironic in the vein of Justin Bieber was the most appropriate.

In the end, he knows that he has to go with what is dearest to his heart, and at the moment, he kind of thinks that it might be a little bit Fred Astaire today. . .

Xxx

Kurt sighs, and kicks the blankets off the end of his legs. It's so hot outside, and the dorms don't have any air conditioning.

"You hang up," Blaine's teasing voice echoes out of his cell phone.

"Funny. Anyway, I probably should be going. I have an 8:30 class tomorrow."

"What are you still doing up at midnight, then?"

"It just seems like a waste of time to go to bed before Tim comes home. He lumbers around like Finn, and I inevitably wake up, anyway."

"What's he doing out so late?"

"I don't know," Kurt sighs. He kind of wishes that he had one of those old phones, the land lines with the cord, because he would totally be twirling it around his finger right now. "No, scratch that, I do know. He's rushing some fraternity, and they keep having events. Anyway, before we hang up, how did _your_ audition go?"

"Okay," Blaine says, but there's something in his voice that Kurt finds highly suspicious. He just waits, knowing that Blaine will inevitably explain more. Sure enough, after a beat and a half, Blaine sighs. "It. . .uh, it went really, really well, actually. One of the guys from the Kingsmen was there and. . .uh. . .he asked me to audition for them."

Kurt has to silence his inner fangirl, because he _knows_ the Kingsmen. They're only one of the most exclusive a capella groups on the planet. Only ten men are in it, and he's pretty sure that freshmen getting a spot is almost unheard of. But he knows that Blaine will want to tell him about that in person, so he settles for a breathy sigh.

"Blaine, you're amazing," he half whispers, and is gratified to hear Blaine's chuckle in return.

"Thanks, dolphin, you aren't so bad yourself. Now, go to bed before your erstwhile roommate returns."

Kurt sighs again, suddenly not wanting to hang up. It's nothing new, this desire to stay on the phone with his boyfriend, and he wonders if it will ever go away, if there will ever actually be a time when he doesn't miss Blaine when the other boy is away. "You're lucky you don't have a roommate," he says.

"But I get so lonely," Blaine whispers. Oh, God. Kurt can feel his face heating up, because they've talked about this before. Blaine has asked him to spend the night. . .every week, actually, after their Friday date. And he . . .he wants to go back to that apartment, he really does, but he's just not sure about it. Not that Blaine would pressure him, but. . .

Anyway, he hears that tone in Blaine's voice again, and he can just picture his boyfriend, lying in that big bed, all alone and. . .

Nope. No. He has already taken a shower tonight, and he is not going to bed with cold hair. So instead of responding, he just sighs again. "I love you, Blaine. Good night."

"Love you, darling."

Kurt snuggles into bed, a smile on his face. He can't remember the last time that he was so excited to go to bed, so excited to wake up. He's pretty sure that he's going to have good dream tonight. . .

But then the door slams open, and Tim tumbles in, laughing and loud, and smelling like a bar. Kurt sighs, and sits back up as his roommate fumbles hopelessly for the light.

"It's fine, Tim," he says. "I'm awake. Make as much noise as you want."

"Awesome!" Tim says. He stumbles to the sink, and rinses out his mouth. He's mumbling the whole time, although Kurt has no idea what he's saying. The other boy pulls his shirt off, and then staggers over to Kurt's bed. He glances up, green eyes slightly bloodshot, blond hair hanging in his face.

"Kurt. . ." he whispers urgently. "Kurt. . .I'm _so_ drunk."  
>"I am very aware of that fact, thank you," Kurt sniffs. "What on earth did you have to do tonight?"<p>

"Nothing, Kurt," Tim says. "I had to drink eighteen shots because I'm eighteen years old. I'm really drunk, Kurt."

"Yes, Tim," Kurt says. He points toward the mini-fridge they have tucked into the corner of their room. "Go get on of my bottles of mineral water and take two Tylenol."

"Why, Kurt?"

"Trust me, you'll thank me in the morning."

Kurt closes his eyes, and just listens to the sound of his roommate stumbling around. He hears the fridge door open, hears the snap as the other boy opens it. A moment later there's another rustling, and then a long, thick finger is poking him in the ribs.

"Kurt. . .Kurt. . ."

"Yes, Tim?"

"My girlfriend broke up with me, Kurt."

"Yes, Tim, I'm aware of that. You tell me every time that you get drunk."

"I really loved her."

Kurt doesn't really know what to say to that. He enjoys rooming with Tim, despite the bad music. It's like having a slightly smarter, marginally better-looking Finn around all the time, and Kurt isn't ashamed to admit that it keeps him from feeling homesick. Still, drunk Tim is more puppy-like than ever. Kurt kind of hopes that if he doesn't say anything, the other boy will get bored and wander back to his bed. Instead, there's a creak as Tim puts a foot on the ladder, and then there's a shudder as the bed gives a little under the weight. Kurt bites his lip as he feels Tim flop into the bed beside him. The bed isn't so small that they're actually touching, but they're close enough that Kurt can feel the body heat off of Tim's body.

"Tim?" Kurt mumbles. "What are you doing?"

"Last time I fell out of my bed," Tim says. "You won't let me fall out of bed, will you, Kurt?"

He sighs, because really, how does one respond to that. So he reaches over, and gently pats his roommate on the hand. He misses, a bit, and one of his fingers digs into Tim's eye a little bit.

"No, Tim, I won't let you fall."

"Good. Kurt?"

"Yes, Tim?"

"Your boyfriend won't be mad that you slept with another boy, will he?"

Kurt grins a little. "No, it's okay, he likes you." He says. The only answer that he receives is a small little snore. Now that he's sure that Tim's asleep, he crawls out of bed and moves over to Tim's bed.

It's not that he's intimidated by Tim, or scared by Tim. It's not that Tim makes hi nervous. It's just that. . .well, he'll be damned if the first time he wakes up in bed with another boy, it's a straight guy.

He'll be damned if the first time he wakes up in bed with another boy, it's not Blaine.

Xxx

"I can't believe that you convinced me to walk in Central Park," Kurt complains "There is dirt here. And bugs. And dogs and horses that defecate all over the place."

"You love me," Rachel cooes. "Beside, the surprise will totally be worth it. By the way, did you hear about callbacks?"

"Not yet," Kurt admits. "I've been checking almost every hour, but there's nothing up, yet. What about you?"

"Well, we all make the performances at Julliard, of course," Rachel says breezily. "It's just a question of what parts we get. They're posting the results Monday before class."

"I'm sure you did great," Kurt says. He's being honest, too. If there's anything that Rachel succeeds at, it's singing. He winces a little as he almost steps in a pile of dog manure. He has to admit, though, that other than the occasional. . .dirtiness. . .Central Park really is beautiful. Dappled sunlight filters through bright green leaves as they wander down the mall. He wants to ask Rachel where they're going again, but he knows she won't tell him, she'll just smirk and flounce. Instead, he tries a different tactic.

"How's Finn?"

Rachel instantly breaks into a massive, massive grin. "He's wonderful," she says. "He's. . .did you know that he got a B- on his first math test?"

"Wow," Kurt says appreciatively. "That's really great."

"It is! And he's fitting in so well. He and Puck are having a great time on the football team, and I think it's just wonderful that they're still friends. And h learned how to cook grilled cheese sandwiches in his room. Apparently he uses an iron to grill them!"

"That's very. . ..innovative," Kurt says. He can totally imagine his half brother doing that. He can also imagine his half-brother staring uselessly at an iron covered in stringy cheese. He really hopes that Carole didn't give him a good iron. "It's so weird, having to hear about my brother from you."  
>"Well, how are my dads?" Rachel asks. Kurt grins.<p>

"They're great. Hiram just came up with a new amuse bouche that I'm excited to try when Blaine finally lets me get loose in his kitchen and. . .okay, point taken."

Rachel grins and grabs Kurt's hand, swinging it lightly by her side. "We were so right," she sighs. "In junior year, when we decided to come here. We were so right. New York is the greatest city in America."

They're past the mall now, walking toward what looks like a big promenade. Kurt glances at his watch. "Rach, it's been really great hanging out with you, and I want to see this surprise, I really do, but I'm supposed to meet Blaine for our date in an hour, and. . ."

"Shhh," Rachel says, but she's still grinning. She grabs his hand and pulls him.

He finally recognizes where they are. . .at the grand staircase leading down to the Bethesda fountain. He's always wanted to come here, and he kind of wonders why it's taken him three weeks to finally make it to the landmark. He turns to thank Rachel, but she's still just smiling and laughing and dragging him forward.

Oh.

_Oh_. That's why Rachel is grinning like a moron.

The fountain is just as beautiful as in the movies, but there's something sadder about it, here in real life. The angel perching above it has an almost sad face, and the water falls in soft trickles. It's romantic and soft and gentle. . .then, too, there are all of the tourists that one would expect around the terrace. A group of teenagers sits on the steps, and a pair of old men appear to be playing a game of checkers.

But none of that is what catches Kurt's attention. Instead, his eyes are drawn instantly to the eight boys standing directly in front of the fountain, staring up at him with broad smiles on their faces. They're all wearing slacks, white shirts, and ties, and they all look like total Ivy school boys. It's clear that they're part of a group. And, standing in front of them is Blaine.

"You ready?" Blaine asks. The smiling boys nod, and instantly begin humming and providing back up a capella sounds. Oh, God. Kurt recognizes this song. Before the song starts, a broad smile is breaking across his face, and he just knows that his face is bright red. Beside him, Rachel claps and begins jumping up and down, pure excitement on her face.

Blaine steps forward, dancing hazel eyes staring up at Kurt. He begins to sing.

"_You think I'm pretty without any make-up one_

_ You think I'm funny when I tell the punchline wrong_

_ I know you get me, so I'll let my walls come down_

_ Down_,"

Two years later, and Kurt still gets weak in the knees watching his boyfriend sing. This time, though, he knows for sure that Blaine is singing to him. There's no question, not when those eyes are fixed to his, not when Blaine is winking and smirking. Not when all of the boys providing backup are always staring straight at Kurt.

All of the noise around the terrace has calmed down, as people turn to watch the a capella group. As Blaine goes into the chorus, Kurt can't take it any longer. He can't just stand here and watch his boyfriend serenading him. He needs to be closer to the other boy, needs to be close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the little creases, the stubble on his cheeks and the white of his flashing teeth. So he starts walking down the stairs, feeling like he's in some kind of a beautiful dream sequence.

"_My heart stops when you look at me_

_ Just one touch and now baby I believe_

_ This is real, so take a chance_

_ And don't ever look back, don't ever look back_"

When Kurt reaches Blaine's side, the other boy grabs his hand, and begins twirling him around the terrace in an impromptu little dance. It's horribly awkward, because Blaine's a bad dancer to begin with, and he's shorter than Kurt by an inch. Still, Kurt can't stop giggling. He can feel Blaine's breath dancing across his skin as they continue to dance. The other boys are sidestepping and snapping their fingers. Kurt kind of wonders where the movie cameras are.

When they're finally finished, there's a round of applause from everyone. Kurt just flings his arms around Blaine's neck, and presses a hot, wet kiss to his boyfriend's cheek. "You've got some explaining to do," he whispers. Blaine giggles, his shoulder shaking a little.

"Kurt," Blaine says, drawing back a little, "I'd like you to meet the Kingsmen, Columbia's elite a capella group. Guys, this is my boyfriend, Kurt."

"Pleasure to meet you," a short boy with serious brown eyes says, stepping forward to shake Kurt's hand. The poise in his demeanor is so similar to Wes' that Kurt actually pauses and takes a moment to glance for a gavel.

"I asked the Kingsmen if I could do a. . .um. . .unique audition," Blaine says. "They were gracious enough to agree."

"I don't know why we don't do public performances more often," one of the boys, a tall, dark young man, says. "We should allow our adoring pubic to see us."

"Some of us have to study," the short boy says. Kurt just grins, and drops his cheek onto the top of Blaine's shoulder.

"Well, you guys were really, really good," Kurt says. "And coming from me, that's quite the compliment."

"It's hard not to be good when there's a fantastic lead soloist," the tall blond says. "Not to get ahead of myself, but I'm pretty sure that the Kingsmen have a new tenor."

The short kid turns around with a furious look on his face. Blaine just laughs, wrapping his arms around Kurt.

"Don't worry about it, Alex," he says. "I won't read too much into it. Just really, thanks for the opportunity to sing with you."

"You do have a prodigious talent," the short boy – Alex – says. "I look forward to singing with you again in the future. Maybe this year, maybe next year." He pauses, and then with a smile says, "But probably this year."

The smile on Blaine's face is bright enough to chase away the darkest of clouds.

Later, when the Kingsmen have dispersed, and it's just Blaine and Kurt, sitting at a streetside restaurant, Kurt takes a moment to lean forward and grab his boyfriend's hand.

"So, what was that for?"

"Nothing," Blaine says. "I'll be honest. It was kind of selfish. I know that I sing better when there's emotion and. . .well. . .it's easy to sing love songs to you."

Kurts heart soars and drops at the same time. Just hearing the word "love" pass Blaine's lips always makes his stomach go into cartwheels, but he'd actually thought that Blaine remembered. But that was silly. . .the September day at Dalton had, after all, meant a lot more to Kurt than it ever would to Blaine.

"And. . ." Blaine says, grinning a little nervously now, "I know you probably don't remember, but that was the first song I ever sang to you."

"I remember," Kurt says, fighting a small grin. "And maybe _you_ don't remember, but that day was exactly two years ago."

"Well," Blaine says, leaning forward and interlacing their fingers, "maybe _you_ don't remember, but I was wearing this same tie that day." Unbelievable. Kurt's eyes flip to the navy and red striped te that Blaine is wearing, and sure enough, it is the Dalton tie. He can't believe he hadn't noticed that before. He just sighs a little, and leans forward.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Well," Blaine says thoughtfully, "you stood through me when I hit on an older guy, made out with a girl, and generally made an ass of myself."

Kurt giggles. "Well," he says. "It was worth it."

Blaines' eyes are suddenly serious as he leans forward, and presses his lips gently to Kurt's fingers. "I like to think so."

Xxx

It's late when Kurt finally gets home, sometime after three. He and Blaine had stayed up in Blaine's apartment, stretched out across the couch, feeding one another popcorn and watching a marathon of _Supernatural_ (Blaine likes the story – Kurt just thinks Jensen Ackles is crazy hot). He's home after Tim for once, and he notices that his roommate is in the correct bed this time. Kurt is horribly tired, and he can't stop yawning, but he needs to check something before falling asleep.

He turns on the computer, and quickly goes to the NYU student activity page. He scrolls down to see the Call Back list for _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_. He holds his breath as he scans down the names, looking for his own. But the list jumps from "Henderson, Andrea" straight to "Jacobs, Andrew." Kurt sighs, and breathes out. It's okay. . .he hadn't really expected to make it, after all. He knows he isn't much of an actor, and he'd been warned that freshmen never make the cut anyway.

He flips the mouse, and heads to the group a capella group. This time the butterflies are crashing around, and he's biting down on his lip as he scrolls through all of the names. Because this. . .this he really wants. Blaine will be in Kingsmen, and Rachel will be working on RENT, and he just really, really needs something of his own.

He'll make one of them. . .he just has to.

But he comes to the bottom of the page, and stares at the screen in disbelief, before scanning up again. He must have missed his name somehow, he must have. . .

But after three more checks it's still not there, and he has to face a hard fact.

He didn't make an a capella group. Not a single one.

**A/N: Review. Please. This is my 5****th**** most alerted story, and has among the fewest reviews. Pathetic. Oh well, I'll just be glad y'all keep coming back to read.**

**COMING SOON: Rachel seeks someone to run lines with, Blaine has to learn to prioritze, and Finn makes his first appearance! Also, coffee confuses Brittany and Lord Tubbington continues to eat. **


	6. Breakfast at Tiffany's: Rachel

13:57

**A/N: I'm baaack! Sorry about the long wait. And, unfortunately, there will probably be another long one after this chapter. Holiday weekend and all! Anyway, enjoy, and thanks once again to my faithful reviewers! In a shocking turn of events, this story has made my top five most alerted stories! (And is still only top 20 for reviews – oh well )**

**SORRY for uploading the wrong chapter, and thanks to those of you who told me! My bad!**

Rachel is lying across her stomach on her bed, laptop pushed open in front of her. She's smiling inanely, like she always is when talking to Finn, and twirling a tendril of hair around her fingers.

It's not the same, talking to him on Skype, as it is at home. He keeps getting distracted, lurching off the chair, and half the time she's talking to his chest, or the top of his head, or just one ear. But still, it's her Finn, wearing a college sweatshirt and taking time out of his college lifestyle to talk to her. He's not flirting with cheerleaders, or kissing sorority girls. . .he's talking to her, Rachel Berry.

"Wait. . ." he says, his face a little confused. "I thought you said that you didn't have to try out. . .that everyone gets a role."

"Of course everybody gets a role," Rachel says, sighing a little in exasperation. Honestly, she's told him this half a dozen times. "But everybody doesn't get a starring role. Most people just have little bits in the chorus. I, on the other hand, managed to earn myself a headline role. My name will finally be in lights, just like I always dreamed!"

"Awesome!" Finn says enthusiastically, leaning forward with his lips puckered. He frowns as he falls back, and wipes at a smeared spot on his computer screen. Obviously, he's forgotten yet again that the wonders of technology do not yet allow them make-out sessions via online programming. "So what does your character do?"

"Well. . ." Rachel says slowly, trying to think of the best way to explain it. "For one thing, my character has a girlfriend. . ."

"Wait. . .you're playing a guy?" Finn asks, forehead creased. Puck's face suddenly appears over his shoulder, leering at Rachel.

"Lesbian?"

"Um. . .well, yes, if you must know," Rachel says huffily. Puck waggles his eyebrows before disappearing from sight again.

"Oh. . ." Finn says, and his face is distinctly twisted now. She can't tell if it's his happy face or his confused face. She'll have to consult her diary later. "That's. . .kind of hot, actually."

"Yes. She also. . .wears rather tight clothes. . .really, Finn, can't you just watch the movie? I'm sure that Kurt has it."

"Yeah," Finn says, shrugging, "but I don't go in Kurt's room when I'm home for the weekend. There's scary stuff in there."

Rachel pauses for half a moment. She's grown up a lot, and she's learned that being a nosy person doesn't always get her anywhere. She knows that Kurt won't want her talking to his stepbrother about these things. She carefully weighs Kurt's privacy against her all-consuming, nosy interest.

"What kinds of scary stuff?" she asks perkily.

"Uh. . .well, he has this, like, shrine thing to Blaine. And all this goop for his face. And those weird magazines that Ms. Rhodes gave him. Which is weird. . .I didn't even think Kurt liked working out."

"Right. . ." Rachel pauses. Finn kind of sounds like he's just getting started, and Rachel can already tell that she doesn't want to know where it's going. There are some facts that even she doesn't care you know about. Luckily, it's easy to derail Finn.

"So. . .how's football?"

And he's off. Rachel is able to tune out for the next few minutes, and just watch as her incredibly hunky boyfriend goes on and on about the most recent game. Or practice. She isn't really paying enough attention to know. Because the truth of the matter is that she's thinking about learning lines and lyrics. RENT, admittedly, was never her favorite Broadway show: it was always a little too explicit and, well, dirty. She knows all of the big, bombastic numbers, of course (she and Mercedes had blown Glee out with their performance of "Take Me Or Leave Me," after all) but the truth is that there's a number of songs she doesn't know.

Okay, she actually only worried about Maureen's performance piece.

She wonders if Finn will help her run through lines, but even as she wonders that, Puck's face pops back into the picture, asking if her boyfriend is ready to go, telling him to "dump the broad and let's party."

No, Rachel realizes with a sigh, Finn won't be helping her read lines. She values their time together too much to spend any of it working through lines. Besides, Finn is still struggling with his own reading.

She'll just get Kurt to help her out. He loves RENT, and loves theater, and it will all work out fine.

Xxx

This place is not wonderful at all. It is small and cramped, and even though New York has outlawed smoking, there's still a feel of smoke just hanging over everything. They're crammed into little tiny seats, at rows of long, wooden tables. The lighting is dim, and just makes Rachel want to be outside. Windows line the far wall, and she can see the soft autumn sunlight filtering in. Somewhere around here feet is a fat orange cat that ever now and again rubs against her leg, purring.

The entire place is populated by Columbia students, dressed in pop colors and faded pants. Rachel's never felt claustrophic, but she's feeling it a little now.

"Blaine, why are we here?" she asks. Her voice sounds pathetic, even to her own ears. The boy sitting across from her leans forward eagerly. His eyes are bright and sparkling, and he licks his lips before speaking. Her eyes flicker to the movement, and she briefly remembers their glorious, short-lived romance.

_Your face tastes awesome_.

"This place is great!" he enthuses. "Everybody from Columbia comes here. . .it's a rich history. Just think of it as a tradition. Writers and poets have sat here. . .probably people who wrote for Broadway!"

Well, Rachel thinks, that is a little exciting. She jumps a little as the cat brushes against her calf again. "Well," she says. "As you know, I wanted to meet with you. I have both a question, and a proposition for you. Which would you like first?"

Blaine considers, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a quick drink. When he puts the cup down, there is still a little foam left on his upper lip. Rachel leans forward and brushes it off for him.

"Thanks," he says with a little half smile. "Well, let's have the question first. What is it?"

"It's about Kurt," Rachel says, and is almost pleased to see the way that his face collapses in around itself. He leans forward anxiously, and she has to raise a hand to forestall his worried nattering. "I asked him if he wanted to run lines with me. As you no doubt know, I've earned the role of Maureen in Julliard's production of RENT. He turned me down."

Blaine looks relieved. "Maybe he was just busy."

"It's RENT, Blaine. It's his favorite show in the entire world."

"Well, I don't know why he didn't want to run lines with you," Blaine says. "Just ask him yourself. Kurt is nothing if not honest."

Rachel considers. She wants to tell Blaine that he's wrong. . .that there is something wrong with Kurt. He hadn't been there, after all, when she'd asked her friend. He hadn't seen the way Kurt narrowed his eyes and shook his head, sharp and short. He hadn't heard the clipped tones. Kurt was pissed at her, for some reason, in full-out diva mode, and she just didn't know why. She'd hoped that Blaine would blurt it out (he'd never been good at holding in his emotions – he's even more of an open book than Finn). His silence, however, is telling.

So instead of saying anything, she just barrels on. "Well, then. To my proposition. Would _you_ like to run lines with me?"

She expects him to instantly nod his acquiescence, to show his own excitement at the prospect. After all, she is offering him the chance of a lifetime – to actually practice with a future Broadway (or maybe opera. . .she still hasn't decided) star.

"I'd love to, Rachel. . ."

"Great. Wonderful. I don't, however, think that this coffee shop, as quaint as it is, is really appropriate for a practice"

Blaine sighs and reaches forward, putting his hand over hers. It's calloused and warm, and Rachel almost squeaks, because it feels like Finn. She stares at the hand, ignoring the quick, squirrel jumps of her heart. When she glances up she's hoping to see warm brown eyes, but alas, her true love is still in Ohio, and only her erstwhile, gay ex-boyfriend sits before her.

"I don't think I can," he says honestly. "I have a huge classload, and the Kingsmen keep me pretty busy. Plus, I'm thinking of getting involved with the GTBL community here. Besides, I barely get to see Kurt as it is. . ."

Rachel sits back and crosses her arms. She knows rejection when she hears it, even if it is being offered in an apologetic tone.

"Do you want me to call up Santana?" Blaine asks.

Rachel stares at him. Santana, really? That's the answer that he has to her immense dilemma? He dare to suggest that she might rehearse with the one girl in their high school Glee club who always, _always_ hated her?

Blaine bursts into laughter.

"I didn't mean. . .oh, God, Rachel, your face. . .no, I just meant that maybe you could run lines with Brittany. Santana's really busy, and I think that she's feeling a little neglected. I bet she'd love to run lines with you."

Rachel considers. It does make sense. . .at the same time, she's not entirely certain that the other girl can read. She didn't graduate high school, after all . . .

"Just think about it," Blaine urges. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a study session with some of the guys in my Calc class."

Rachel is still thinking as he leaves. She could ask Brittany, she supposes.

Xxx

Finn isn't on Skype that Thursday when he's supposed to be. Rachel checks the clock. 8:12. He's more than twelve minutes late. She knows that she shouldn't be upset. . .every now and again things are going to come up, and she just has to accept that this is one of the problems of successfully navigating a long distance relationship.

But that doesn't mean she has to like it.

"Waiting on your boy toy?" Marion asks.

"He must be busy," Rachel says. "Why, yes, now that I think about it, he might have mentioned that he has a football practice today. An emergency one."

"Whatever," Marion flops over, kicking up at the ceiling. "He stood you up, girl. It sucks, but it happens."

Rachel sniffs and tosses her hair over her shoulder. What would Marion know about it, anyway? They've been living together for more than a month, now, and she has never seen the other girl out on a date. Rachel sighs again. Well, perhaps it's really for the best. They have a read-through for the show the next morning, and she should probably practice.

She glances at her phone, lying on the small desk beside her bed. She knows that Kurt and Blaine won't help her, but maybe she could call Brittany. She glances up from beneath her bangs at her roommate.

"Marion," she says abruptly. "Would you mind running lines with me? We have a readthrough tomorrow, and I just don't feel very comfortable with one of the scenes. . ."

Marion stares at her for a long minute, lips pursed. "Um. . ."

"It's fine," Rachel says, settling back again. "I can just practice on my own. I'm perfectly used to having to handle things on my own."

They both sit there in silence for a moment. Rachel is considering whether anyone would think it strange if she took her script into the bathroom with her. She's always enjoyed singing (loudly) in the shower, and this isn't so different, really.

"Okay," Marion says.

"Okay, what?" Rachel asks, no longer remembering what they'd been talking about.

"I'll read lines with you."

Rachel stares at her roommate, who's looking at her with a slightly worried expression. Rachel's smile slowly spreads over her face.

Xxx

It's time for their weekly breakfast at Tiffany's. Some people religiously attend church on Sundays: Rachel and Kurt obsessively drink coffee, eat bagels, and wander down Fifth Avenue. Kurt, at least, is on time, already peering hungrily into one of the Tiffany's window boxes. Or rather, alternatively hungry gazes with quick, concerned glances at his cell phone.

"What will your ring be like?" he asks, before biting into his bagel. Rachel doesn't even have to think.

"White gold, of course, with a single solitaire diamond. It doesn't have to be big. Finn can't afford anything big. I mean. . ." she's blushing, because she hadn't meant to mention Finn's name. Hot embarrassment pools in her stomach. They're high school sweethearts, and as much as she loves Finn, she knows that they're not going to make it. He's a country boy, and she's destined to be a big city star. Their lives will be tragically separate, though their hearts will yearn for one another.

Kurt is peering at her, a strange expression in his eyes. He sighs, and glances back toward the store.

"What about you?" Rachel asks. "What kind of a ring will Blaine be getting you?"

"Platinum," he says. "With a simple inscription."

"I suppose you'll have to get married in New York," Rachel muses. "Since Ohio still hasn't legalized gay marriage. Unless you're content to just have a civil union, but my dad's say that is stigmatizing, to put a separate word to it and. . ."

Kurt flips open his cell, lips pursed, before answering. "Yeah. . .maybe. . ." he says.

Rachel stops, hands on her hips. She knows when she's being ignored, and she definitely doesn't appreciate it, especially not from an old friend. She'd spent plenty of time being ignored in high school, and now that she is on the cusp of stardom, she refuses to stand for it any longer.

"Kurt Hummel, do not look at your phone when I'm talking to you."

Kurt sighs, and regretfully snaps the phone shut, before shoving it into his back pocket. "Sorry," he says, though she notices that his eyes are far from apologetic. "Finn was supposed to go into surgery an hour ago, and I just keep waiting for news." He glances at her, his eyes narrowed. "Actually, I would have thought _you'd_ be a little more concerned about him."

Kurt keeps talking, but Rachel tunes him out. It feels like a dead weight has settled in the bottom of her stomach, like the final act of Aida, buried alive, like Christine, in the Phantom's lair. . .anyway, the point is that she feels horrible. Finn is her boyfriend, shouldn't she be the first one to know that he's been injured, that he's hurt, that. . .

Oh, God. He's in surgery. He could be hurt. He could be dying. He could

She reaches forward and grabs Kurt by the top of his coat, dragging him toward her and ignoring his cries of "not the lapels!"

"What's wrong with him?" she asks. "Oh my God. . .is he okay? Is it gallstones? Kidney stones? Oh no. . .is it his _tonsils_?"

Kurt gapes at her, his mouth flapping like a fish. Rachel wants to shake him, to yank him back and forth until. . .until. . .she really doesn't know how to finish that thought.

"He should be fine," Kurt finally manages. "He tore his ACL during football practice."

ACL. . .Rachel's head is spinning. What does ACL stand for? Auditory Canal Leg? All Cranial Lozenge?

"It's in his leg," Kurt says dryly, clearly noting her confusion. "Dad says it's pretty routine, and he'll be fine. But. . ." His face drops a little. Rachel leans forward.

"But what, Kurt?"

"Blaine says it's a common football injury, but that a lot of times it means the end of a football career."

Rachel settles back. She hates football, and has ever since playing in a game her junior year. She knows that Finn loves it, and feels a little badly that he may not play again, but she has to admit that there's a small bit of satisfaction there, too.

"He might lose his scholarship," Kurt says, frowning at her.

"That's all right," Rachel says breezily. "He can apply for a music scholarship. He'll be brought back to his roots of singing."

Apparently she's said something wrong, because Kurt screws up his face, and absolutely hurls his coffee at the ground. It hits the sidewalk with a dull splat, brown liquid spilling out and staining the already dirty New York sidewalk. Rachel stares. Kurt's always been all about the drama, but he also values his coffee.

"That's it," he fumes.

"Kurt. . .you dropped your coffee," she points out. He crosses his arm, and sticks up his chin.

"I'm sick of it," he says, turning and glaring at her. "Did you know I couldn't even get into a music program, let alone a scholarship! What makes you think that Finn won't?"

Rachel frowns at him. Why is he so upset? He didn't need a scholarship. . .he had the grades to get into great schools on his own, and the confidence to take out loans and handle it. Finn. . .Finn didn't have the best grades, and there was no guarantee that he'd get a well-paid job after graduation. He needs a scholarship.

"Look," she says, "Finn may not have the vocal depth of you, or the emotional resonance of myself, or even the dulcet undertones of Blaine, but he's a talented performer. And we both know that his grades aren't good enough to maintain his position in the school without some kind of competing factor."

Kurt isn't listening to her. He's just shaking his head. "It's not about what Finn _needs_." He says. "Gaga, it's like. . .you and Blaine don't get it. It's so easy for you, getting leads in plays and getting into exclusive a capella groups. . ."

"Kurt, if this is about you not making the groups at NYU, you know that they rarely take freshman. . ."

"And Kingsmen _never_ takes freshmen. And you have a lead at _Julliard_. You two don't work any harder than I do. . .you don't. . .it's not _fair_."

Rachel has a sudden, sharp memory of standing in the auditorium, toe to toe with Quinn, arguing

_Life isn't fair, Rachel._

_ I didn't say it is! But you're smart, and so, so pretty. . ._

_ Yes, we all know that you're obsessed with my beauty. But pretty doesn't get me into an Ivy, and pretty doesn't get me a job, and pretty doesn't get me out of Lima._

_ But you're talented and. . ._

_ Shut up, Berry. Just shut up, and accept that you're going to get out of here, and some of us aren't. That's life. Suck it up. The rest of us have_.

"Kurt. . ." Rachel's trembling a little, and she's trying to figure out how this went so wrong. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think. I didn't. . ."

"Whatever," Kurt says. He isn't looking at her, but his shoulders are shaking a little. "It's not a big deal. I'm happy for you two. Really, I am."

When he turns around, his eyes are a little red-rimmed, but his cheeks are dry, and there's a small smile on his lips. "Come on. I need another coffee."

**A/N: No Klaine. Or Brittana. But a little Finchel! So. . .there's something.**

**COMING SOON: A flashmob in Grand Central Station, Klaine and Brittana decide to hit the club scene, and romance blooms in Central Park! Also. . .more Kurt angst, and a little Santana angst as well. **


	7. Grand Central Station: Blaine

13:57

**A/N: Phew! Holiday weekend! Returned with a super long chappie for you. Here there be humor! There be angst! There be romance! There be much Klaine!**

Blaine stares critically in the mirror. It's too much, isn't it? It is, it's two much. He tries taking off the rainbow suspenders, and peers again. It still might be too gay, even for him. The pants are fine, of course. It's the white T-shirt, with the bold black letters proclaiming "Likes Boys" (idea courtesy of the adorable Kurt Hummel, of course), the rainbow suspenders, and the bright pink sunglasses perched on top of his head that give him pause.

Blaine's been out for years now, of course, so it's not that he's afraid that people will know about his sexuality. He's been out, and he's been proud, but he's never been flamboyant or showy about it. He doesn't wear overly flashy clothes, or talk with a lisp, or love interior decorating. He's still a _guy_, and there's something about wearing all the rainbow paraphernalia that makes him kind of uncomfortable.

Then again, he's dating Kurt, and Kurt does _all_ of those things. In so many ways, he's a walking stereotype, and yet he's completely perfect.

Also, definitely a guy.

That's what decides him. Blaine does leave the suspenders off, but the rest of it stays, with just a light cardigan to ward against the autumn chill. He glances at the clock, and notices that he's still a little early, even with all of the worry over his wardrobe. Still, the absolute _last_ thing that he wants is to be late, so he hurries out, anyway.

He strolls down Amsterdam toward campus, grinning at all of the other students he sees around. He doesn't know all of them, obviously. . .actually doesn't really recognize any at all. But there's a certain camaraderie to being a young person in Morningside Heights. . .to being anyone without a kid, really. So he waves, and nods, and smiles whenever he passes anyone who looks to be college-aged.

He walks quickly toward the library at the center of campus, across the well-groomed lawn, still bright green even in the dry October. There's already a group of students gathered on the towering steps, some leaning over posterboards while others gather around, chatting idly. He picks up the pace, almost jogging to the marble steps.

The beauty of Columbia's campus still surprises him sometimes, the serenity of the campus. It's Ivy League, old world grandeur in the middle of a bustling city. It's hard for him to believe that right over the chasm is Harlem, and there are millions of people surrounding it. Still, within the walls of the university, everything is hushed and quiet and collegiate.

"Hey, guys," He says a little breathlessly as he arrives. A few students he doesn't know look up and wave, but he ignores them and heads toward Alice and Jon.

They're both in full on Pride regalia, Jon actually going so far as to wear a pair of skintight, rainbow jeans and a bright purple shirt. Alice is a bit more demure, other than the flag that she has tied around her shoulders. They're the president and vice president of the GTBL students group, and among Blaine's favorite people that he's met.

"Hey, Anderson," Jon says, blushing a little. Blaine ignores it. He knows that Jon has a crush on him, and he finds it very flattering. The other boy is a junior, after all, and not bad-looking, either. But Jon is. . .well, there's nothing wrong with him, really. There's just no spark, no chemistry.

And, of course, there's Kurt.

"Where's your sign?" Alice asks, one eyebrow upraised. Blaine just shrugs sheepishly. The older girl rolls her eyes, and points him toward the students currently sprawled across the stairs, scribbling and dashing black paint across white posterboard. "Get to it," she says. "We can't have our Freshman Chairperson without a sign."

Blaine grins so wide it hurts. "I got it?" he asks eagerly. "Really?"

During welcome week he'd signed up for the GTBL committee, and he'd gone to all of their meetings. He'd instantly been impressed by their openheartedness, and bravery. Nobody was afraid to be themselves. Plus, he felt like he was doing something. Gay rights had come a fair way, of course, even since he'd been in high school. When New York had legalized marriage his senior year of high school, he'd thought everything was on the upswing. But the first meeting at Columbia had quickly reminded him that in most states there was no marriage, and in some not even civil unions.

He squats down beside the other students, and accepts one of the boards shoved toward him. He frowns, sticking his tongue out a little, as he thinks what to write. Some of the other students have creative slogans: "8 is Hate" and "Brown II" and his personal favorite, a large equal sign painted in rainbow glitter pen. He settles, finally, for simply writing "I Do."

He's just finishing up when his cell phone buzzes in his back pocket. He pulls it out, a little surprised to see a text from Kurt. His boyfriend had been pretty pissed when Blaine had broken their regular Friday night date to come to the demonstration. He's sure there will be some snide, catty remark on his phone, and he almost doesn't flip it open to read it.

In the end he does, of course, because it's Kurt, and he doesn't think he could ever resist him.

_**Have fun protesting! Want to listen to me protest muffins tomorrow morning?**_

Blaine knows that he's grinning like an idiot, but he can't help it, his fingers flying over the keys.

_**Blueberry? I'll make this up to you, I promise.**_

_** You'd better. Love you.**_

_** 3**_

__He puts the phone back. When he looks up, Jon is staring at him, an intense look in the other boy's grey eyes. When Blaine meets his gaze, he turns away quickly, shuffling his feet a little and whispering something in Alice's ear.

Something twists uncomfortably in Blaine's stomach. He leans down to pick up his sign, shooting a sideways look toward Jon as he does so. Yeah, he thinks, as he sees that the tips of Jon's ears are still red. Yeah, that could be a problem.

Xxx

Tim answers the door after Blaine's knock. His hair is still wet from the shower, and falls in lazy ash blond ringlets across his forehead. He's just wearing a towel slung low across his waist. And yes, Blaine has a boyfriend, and yes, he loves his boyfriend, but at the same time, he can enjoy the view.

"Is that Blaine?" Kurt yells from within the room.

"Yup," Tim says, sticking a toothbrush in his mouth.

"Just a minute, Blaine!" Kurt sing-songs from behind the closet. "I'm almost ready, I swear!"

Blaine sighs good-naturedly and glances at his watch. "Like five minutes almost ready, or an hour almost ready?"

"Twenty seconds," Kurt promises, and sure enough, a moment later he flounces out, wearing a pair of crazily patterned grey pants, black boots that lace halfway up his calves, a sapphire vest, and a light blue shirt. "Ta-da!" he trills, spinning around. Halfway through his spin, however, he froze, stomping one foot on the ground and glaring at his boyfriend. Blaine grinned a little.

"What. . .are . . . you . . .wearing?" Kurt demands, walking forward and poking him in the chest. Blaine glances down at what he's wearing. A pair of black dress pants, a black shirt, and a pair of purple suspenders.

"You don't like?" he asks playfully, pulling at the straps. Kurt growls a little in the back of his throat. He walks forward, and grabs both of Blaine's hands, stilling them. He leans forward, greygreenblue eyes peering into Blaine's own.

"You know I do," he says huskily. "But I also know you don't. so why. . ."

"Oh," Blaine laughs a little, and shrugs. "We kind of have to make a pitstop before our date."

Kurt leans back, and raises one artfully sculpted eyebrow. Blaine tries to read the expression: is his boyfriend amused? Irritated? Accepting?

"All right, Blaine Warb. . ." Kurt cuts himself off halfway, and looks thoughtful. "Should I call you Blaine Kingsmen, now?"

"How about you just call me honeybunches and leave it at that?"

Kurt screws his nose up in the cutest way, and all that Blaine wants to do is lean forward and kiss it. But Tim is still standing in the room, nonchalantly crossing his arms and leaning on his bunkbed. There's no doubt that Kurt's roommate is an okay guy – more than okay, really. At the same time, he's currently employing the "protective dad" stance that's always been terrifying around Finn or Burt. So instead of leaning forward and placing a peck on Kurt's nose, Blaine just grabs his hand and pulls him out of the room.

Kurt raises an eyebrow as they head immediately into the nearest subway. They don't usually take the subway for their dates – while Blaine doesn't mind it at all (he kind of likes it, actually, with the mix of different people, with the random buskers and performers, the combination of kids and elderly, and all races) Kurt always thinks that it smells like urine. So usually they take a taxi, or a bus, or just walk. Today he seems content to just follow Blaine's lead, though, which is for the best since they're already running a little late.

The car comes quickly, which is a good thing. Even though the weather outside is all brisk autumn leaves and crisp October air, the subway still feels as stuffy and suffocating as the middle of August. The first car is almost empty, as ever, and the two boys climb on, finding empty areas on the bench.

"Aren't you curious as to where we're going?" Blaine asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. Kurt just shrugs and examines his reflection in the mirror.

"We've been going out for a year and a half," he points out. "I know when you've got a surprise in store. I'll just wait."

Blaine settles back, a little deflated at being denied an opportunity to tease his boyfriend. There is nothing in the world cuter than an irritated Kurt Hummel – except for maybe puppies. But since his apartment is strictly anti-pet, he'll have to satisfy for irritated Kurt.

They get off at Grand Central Terminal. Blaine's pretty sure that his boyfriend hasn't been here. Although the architecture is, of course, amazing, the shopping is pedantic and Kurt is all about glitz and glamour and not so much about turn of the century train stations. Still, he can't wait to see his boyfriend's face when they finally leave the labyrinthian subway and step into the main concourse. Sure enough, as they step into the massive room, Kurt's face lights up.

Blaine doesn't see the lights streaming in from the high, vaulted windows. He doesn't see the constellations painted on the ceiling, or the chandeliers casting a warm glow over the room. He doesn't notice the iconoclastic clock in the middle of the room, or the spiraling marble staircase. He doesn't notice the bustle or excitement of tourists, or the maps being handed out, or even his friends from school, in matching suspenders gathered in the center of the room. He doesn't notice any of it, because he's enjoying too much the light in Kurt's eyes, and the quirk to his mouth, and the way his eyebrows raise into his hairline.

"Wow. . ." Kurt says, swallowing thickly. "This is. . .amazing. It's beautiful, Blaine."

"Yeah," Blaine whispers. "It really is."

Kurt turns to him then, a clear question in his eyes. Blaine just clears his throat and bumps the other boy playfully in the shoulder. "Hold on," he says. "This will just take a minute."

He walks down the stairs, and joins his friends in the center of the room. He glances over to see Kurt's bemused expression. When he turns back around, Alex is glaring at him, hands on his hips and an angry look on his short, pug features.

"Blaine Anderson," he tuts. "You are a minute late."

"Um. . .where's Tony?"

"Late," Howie volunteers. "Like usual. We just start without him."

"And that is not the point," Alex insists. "The point is that _you_ are late. And you're our newest recruit. You're still supposed to be eager to please, and making sure that you show up fifteen minutes early."

"I am eager to please," Blaine says. "Just. . .a little tardy sometimes."

A tall, dark boy runs up to them, panting a little. "Hey!" he says. "Sorry I'm late."

"If you weren't our only beatboxer, I swear. . ." Alex shakes his head.

"All right, let's get started," Howie says, clapping his hands and pulling attention away from Alex. Blaine is glad. He's only been with the a cappella group for two weeks now, but he can already tell that Alex is a bit of a control freak. Luckily, Howie is the official president of the club, and although everyone seems to allow Alex the high horse, when push comes to shove he has none of the actual power.

All of the boys start move into their positions – for this song, a straight line across the entirety of the main concourse. Something like butterflies is settling in Blaine's stomach, and he doesn't know why. He's performed in front of thousands of people before – performed in Gaps, on Stages, in Central Park. . .he's spent the past three summers of his lives working in amusement parks. But there's something different, standing in this majestic building, in front of complete strangers. He glances around, desperately trying to catch Kurt's eye, but his boyfriend must have moved, because there isn't a familiar face standing beside the gate to the subway.

Luckily he doesn't have to do much for today's set: he's just background vocals, in the most simple sense of the word, providing beats and repeating the lead. He moves through it almost mechanically, eying the crowds, viewing their reactions. . .

And they love it. Each and every face that he spots is filled with delight. People are taking out their cell phones and taking video, are pointing, some are sending frantic texts with their eyes firmly rooted on the Kingsmen.

He gains confidence, swaggering a little, and playing with the suspenders. He winks at a group of teenage girls, who promptly scream and grab at one another. He's back to being a smooth operator, the top of the heap, and he settles back into it like it's where he belongs.

It is.

When they finally end, with the Columbia alma mater, the boys gather again in the center of the room, just below the clock. Strangers come over and congratulate them on their performance, ask for photos with the performers. A few little kids want autographs.

"Really well done," Alex says approvingly.

"Have a great day!" Howie enthuses.

And they separate. Which is a strange feeling for Blaine. He's used to the Warblers all climbing on the back of a bus together, all heading off together. He's not used to this break and disperse, even though he'd known it was what was going to happen. It's a Saturday afternoon, and the guys have dates. A few have interviews for jobs for the coming year – Howie has to work on a paper, and Tony is schmoozing with relatives. There's a party that night, but Blaine won't be going. It's an emptying feeling, watching his new friends all drift away.

He spins around in the concourse, searching out his boyfriend. His heart lurches for a moment, as he doesn't see the familiar, styled hair and fashionable accessories. He spins back again, the painted constellations on the ceiling twirling and dizzying. He knows that Kurt's been feeling left out – maybe left behind is the better word. Maybe he shouldn't have brought him. . .but he wants his boyfriend to feel comfortable in his world, with his friends. There's no reason that they have to live completely separate lives, brought together only by their weekend dates and nightly phone calls.

Still. He spins again, and nearly crashes into the ground when a pair of hands grasp his forearms tightly. This time, when the spinning stops, he's grounded by a pair of familiar eyes.

"There you are," Blaine murmurs. "I've been looking for you forever."

"At least for five minutes," Kurt says flippantly, but the tips of his ears are red.

"Did you like it?" Blaine asks, and he's bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. Kurt pauses for a moment, biting his lip, before breaking into a small, shy smile.

"I did," he says. "You're amazing, Blaine. I just hope that they let you do more solos."

"Ahh," Blaine says, wagging his eyebrows. "You want a repeat of Blaine and the Pips?"

Kurt laughs, little tinkling bell-like laughter. "Well, now that I'm no longer in the group, yes, I want my boyfriend to be large and in charge."

"Well, I will do my best to accommodate you, sir," Blaine says, gallantly taking the other boys' arm in his own, and very nearly promenading them up the slight incline to the exit. "Now then, onto today's main event. . ."

xxx

Blaine isn't really sure how they've ended up here. He likes it – the pulsing beat and the dark lights feel animalistic and primal. He loves the feeling of hot bodies pressed up all around him, the tangy sweat on his own skin, the way he knows that it's seeping into his hair, that curls are breaking free. He feels sexy with his shirt sticking to his skin, with the occasional hands grabbing his ass, or the even more occasional, "accidental" grazes against his cock.

The night had started out innocently enough. He'd taken Kurt to the French Culinary Institute, where they'd spent a few hours gazing at one another lovingly over a four course meal. They'd fed each other bits of chocolate ganache and raspberry sorbet, and mused about how much better it all would be if they were just allowed the glasses of wine that went along with each course.

Then they'd walked out onto the sidewalk, Kurt shivering a little in the early evening breeze. It's still early in October, but the air has turned crisp, with hints of winter in the wind. Blaine had taken off his own jacket and draped it over his boyfriend. They'd been debating whether to go back to Kurt's dorm, which was closer, or Blaine's apartment, which though further away lacked a roommate.

They'd been caught in their indecision. Santana and Brittany, both a little unsteady from drink, had been heading out from the "pre-party" at their place to Blue's Bar, and somehow convinced them to come along.

"They don't card!" Santana screams excitedly. "Except for maybe Kurt. . ."

So now here they are, firmly in the back of the bar, surrounded by strangers. It's heady, and exciting, and Blaine doesn't think it's just the vodka that has him all riled up. Someone is leaning in to talk to him – he's tall, with dirty blond hair that falls in waves to his shoulder.

"Hey," he screams in Blaine's ear, still barely audible over the pounding bass. "My name's James."

"Blaine!" he replies. He raises a hand to push back some of the sweaty hair that's fallen over his forehead, but the other man's hand beats him to it.

"You're hot," James says.

"Thank you!" Blaine has had politeness ingrained into him, and the response is automatic. "You, too."

Something flashes in the other's man's eyes. They're green, Blaine notices, or at least they look green in the dark of the bar. "You want to get out of here?"

Blaine glances around to try and find Kurt and Brittana, but there are too many people pressing all around him. He shakes his head. James presses in closer, anyway. Blaine's beginning to get the idea that this guy isn't just super friendly, and he looks around for Kurt again. Not finding him, he just holds up his glass instead.

"'Scuse me," Blaine says, flashing a smile. "Got to get a refill."

"It's only half empty," James says. So Blaine lifts the glass to his lips and downs what's left. It leaves a burning trail down to his stomach, and he shivers a little. The dance floor continues to spin as he lurches back toward the bar.

He finally spots his friends, tucked in to a little table at the back. Kurt and Santana are both sitting, dubious expressions on their faces as they watch Brittany dancing on top of their table. Blaine grins, and practically throws himself into his boyfriend's lap.

"You're a great dancer, Brittany!" he shouts.

"Make a new friend?" Kurt asks, his face upside down. Blaine struggles to right himself, throwing an arm around his boyfriend's neck and snuggling in close. Even in the heat and stench of the bar, Kurt still smells like rosewater and expensive cologne.

"You should dance with me," Blaine says. Kurt shivers a little under him, so he presses in closer. "It's fun, Kurt. Come dance with me."

"I'm perfectly comfortable where I am, thank you very much," Kurt says primly, but his voice is shaking a little. Blaine grins and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the other boy's jawbone. He's rewarded with another delicious little shiver.

"You boys need a room, or do we get a free show?" Santana asks, smirking a little. Blaine glances up, what he hopes is a lascivious look on his face. Apparently not, because Santana just laughs, and Kurt tuts.

Blaine stands up, pride wounded a little, but mostly just feeling the music streaming up from his feet, demanding that he dance. He tries to pull Kurt up with him, but his boyfriend refuses, an arch look on his face. Blaine just shrugs, and extends his hand to Santana. Surprisingly, she refuses, after a quick glance at Kurt. Brittany, on the other hand, promptly jumps off the table and runs off with him.

Dancing with Brittany is fun, almost relaxing. She grinds up against him and it feels nice, a soft body pressing against him. Her hair keeps getting in his face, however, and when she's standing up, his face is about on level with her breasts. Still, she's laughing, and nice, and she's a friend. It's safe.

Until he twirls around, and is face to face with another man, who promptly begins grinding into him. And this is not. . .this does not feel safe at all. Blaine's brain, already confused with vodka drinks and shots of whiskey, is tumbling over itself. The other man is hard, and demanding. He pulls Blaine up hard against him, his breath a hot whisper in his ear.

But then Brittany is there again, oblivious, darting between the two of them and freeing Blaine from the other man. They twirl around. Through the press of people and bodies, Blaine catches a glance back at their table. Santana is no longer there. . .maybe she went to the bathroom, maybe she decided to dance. Either way, Kurt's there alone. Blaine has time to think that maybe that's not such a good thing, before he's spun around, and is now being passed between Brittany and the stranger.

But now Santana is there, too, and he's sandwiched between the two girls, Santana pressing up against him from behind, and Britt in front, and he can't help but laugh. A drip of sweat trickles down his nose, and lands on the back of Brittany's neck. He rolls his hips forward and she giggles, while behind, Santana presses forward more urgently. He feels a kiss on his shoulder, so he leans forward and plants one on Brittany's. Santana seems to like this. She brushes back Blaine's hair, and he does the same for the blonde girl in front. She slides a hand up under his shirt, and he does the same. It's a kinky game they're playing, but they're friends, and it's innocent fun, and Santana's laugh is breathy and low.

When he glances toward the table again, Kurt's not alone. There's another man sitting there. Un ugly man, with stupid, gelled black hair, and a stupid smile. Blaine's stomach lurches, and when Santana's teeth catch his earlobe, he doesn't repeat the gesture. In fact, he lets go of Britt, and pulls himself apart. The man has his hand on top of Kurt's, now, and is leaning forward. He shoves between a couple, ignoring their protests. The man trails a hand down Kurt's face.

And then Blaine is there, beside the table. He grabs his boyfriend's hand, and yanks him up. "We're leaving!" he yells. Kurt turns to stare at him, mouth agape.

"Blaine. . .what?"

"We're leaving!" Blaine insists, and unsteadily begins towing his boyfriend through the crowd. What just minutes ago had seemed sexy and daring now seems tawdry and dirty. Why was Kurt even _talking_ to that guy? Why did he let himself be touched like that?

There's a little voice in the back of his head telling him that they should get Brittany and Santana, that they shouldn't just leave their friends. There's a little voice telling him that he finally has Kurt out of his seat, that they should take advantage and dance. There's a little voice telling him that he's overreacting.

He ignores all those voices.

The fresh air wakes him up a little, makes the confusion recede a bit. He drops Kurt's hand, but doesn't turn around to face him. With the noise in the background, and the harsh, acrid smoke of New York in his mouth, coming to the club suddenly doesn't seem like such a good idea. He doesn't want to be the first to speak.

"What the _fuck_, Blaine?"

The obscenity leaving Kurt's mouth makes him flinch. His boyfriend never swears – absolutely never. He shivers again, bile rising in his throat, but he refuses to vomit. By sheer force of will he forces it down. He shivers again.

"Look at me."

He won't.

"Blaine, look at me."

There's a hand on his chin, now, forcing him to turn. But there's shame there, now, and he doesn't feel good. There's a gray haze at the edges of his vision, and his stomach is still jumping. His head thuds, and there's a throbbing in his ears, as if they're trying to recreate the pounding bass of the club. He sees Kurt in front of him.

"You were talking to another guy," Blaine says dully. Kurt frowns and cocks his head, clearly not understanding.

"In the club? He was just asking about my accessorizing. He wanted to know where I got my scarf."

"Don't be stupid," Blaine yells, the words coming out louder than he'd anticipated. There's the nausea, again, the pain in his head. He forces it back. "That guy wasn't just talking. He was flirting with you."

"So? Did you even _notice_ yourself on the dance floor, Blaine? You were practically having sex out there."

"That's not the same. That was Brittany and Santana. They're our friends. And they're girls. It's not the same."

"What about the other guys?" Kurt asks. "You weren't just dancing with Santana, and you know it. Did you ever think that might piss _me_ off?"

Blaine gags a little. It's the smoke, and the cold air, and the shifting ground. It's Kurt's angry eyes and biting words. And it's definitely, definitely the shots of whiskey and the vodka cranberries.

He leans over a pukes. Some of it gets on his shirt, but most of it splatters across New York concrete. He puts his hands on his thighs and heaves. It's chunks at first, and then a watery dribble. He feels immensely better when he's done.

Kurt pats him awkwardly on the back. When he stands up, his boyfriend hands him a handkerchief, and a bottle of water. Blaine takes a drink, and wipes at his mouth. He breathes in and out, slowly, steadily. That's better. That's much better.

"Come on," Kurt says gently. "Let's get a taxi. I'll take you home."

Blaine just nods and screws his eyes tightly together. He lets Kurt snake an arm around his waist, lets himself be led to the street. A taxi comes quickly, which is a relief, because his legs are feeling wobbly again. He climbs in first, scooting over so that Kurt can join him.

"Here," Kurt says, pulling him forward so that he's half-lying in the cab seat, his head in Kurt's lap. It feels nice, being snuggled up next to his boyfriend, and even nicer when Kurt starts running his hand through Blaine's hair. He listens vaguely to the directions being given.

The hum of the motor and the movement must have put him to sleep, because the next thing Blaine knows, Kurt is handing the cab driver money, and is trying to pull him out. Blaine lurches behind him. He doesn't like being separate from Kurt, doesn't like not touching him. He leans forward and wraps his arms around the other boy as they stand, waiting for the elevator. He nuzzles in to Kurt's neck. It still smells like rosewater and cologne, beneath the smoke and alcohol.

"Can you get home from here?" Kurt asks.

"No," Blaine murmurs. "Put me to bed. Sleep with me, tonight."

Kurt stiffens in his arms, and starts to pull away. Blaine groans a little, but lets him go. He's made enough mistakes tonight. He's not going to make another.

"I didn't mean anything," he says. "I didn't mean that we should do anything. Just. . .stay. We can snuggle, and put on a movie."

Kurt still looks uncertain.

"Please," Blaine says again. He just doesn't want to be alone. He's used to boarding at Dalton, with hundreds of other boys, or at least to being home with his parents. He's not used to his one bedroom, all alone, sparsely furnished. He doesn't feel well, and the world keeps spinning, and he just really doesn't want to be alone.

Kurt must see this, because he nods a little, and settles back in to Blaine's arms.

"Okay," he says. "But you shower and brush your teeth before there's any cuddling."

**A/N: Oh, Blaine. You're such an idiot. More fissures in the Klaine relationship begin. Also. . .do I sense an upcoming Kurttany and Blaintana friendship? I think so. . .**

**COMING SOON: Brittany enjoys her job. Shopping on Fifth Avenue. Santana opens up a little. And then. . .DISASTER**


	8. Upper East Side: Brittany

13:57

**A/N: And back again, with a little snippet of Brittana for all of you. It's off to Chicago for the weekend, which means no update until Monday but it should be a doozie, filled with Klaine angst and the promise of some Finchel drama. Enjoy! And thanks for the reviews, especially that one, AWESOME reviewer who posts something every chapter. You know who you are!**

Blaine stares critically in the mirror. It's too much, isn't it? It is, it's two much. He tries taking The sun isn't up yet, which means that it might be time to go to work. Brittany glances at the clock beside the bed. It says 4:45, which means that it is time to get up. She sighs, leans over, and kisses San on the top of the head. The other girl doesn't react at all, just continues to lie there, sprawled out in the bed like an octopus. She snores.

When Brittany sits all the way up, Lord Tubbington waddles over, his fluffy tail held high like a banner. He meows at her once, before she has time to put her fingers to her lips and remind him to be quiet. Lord Tubbington is a very good cat, but sometimes he gets loud when he's hungry.

She pads across the studio to the fridge, and takes out a tub. She squints in the dim light from the fridge. Today is Sunday, so she is supposed to give him food from the tub that says Sunday. She spoons it into his tray, and then heads over to the one closet.

It's easy picking what to wear. She has to wear a pair of khackis and her assigned shirt. She puts her hair up, brushes her teeth (San says she has to do it every day) and heads out the door.

They don't have a very nice apartment. Brittany knows this. She knows that it's tiny, and it only has the one window that stares straight at a brick wall. It isn't big and fresh like Blaine's apartment, and it doesn't have a view of the park, or an elevator, or a doorman. It's seven hot, dusty flights down to the ground, and then a door that's missing a knob. She almost walks into a pile of trash, but neatly manages to dance around it.

She knows that it isn't a very nice apartment, but she still turns around and waves good-bye to it. Because it's hers, hers and San's. It's their home, and even though she kind of doesn't like it very much, she still kind of likes it because it's theirs.

The coffeeshop is uptown, so she has to get on the subway. She never sits on the subway – there's always old people, or little kids, or poor men who no homes who look tired and sick. She doesn't want them to think that there's no room for them, so she always stands in the middle of the car, hanging on to the rails overhead. Sometimes she stretches, but today she's still kind of tired from the club.

She smiles a little. The club was fun. She liked dancing on the table, and then dancing with Blaine, and then finally, finally dancing with Santana. She doesn't like how drunk her girlfriend has to get before dancing with her, but she doesn't think that San was very drunk last night.

She gets off at 86th street, and then walks two blocks. Ronnie is already there when she arrives, so she doesn't have to unlock the door. She just walks in.

"Hi, Ronnie!" she says with a cheerful wave at her coworker. Ronnie smiles back. She's missing one tooth, but it's way in the back, and nobody can even see it except for when she smiles really big.

"Hey, sugar," Ronnie says. "Start taking down the chairs, okay? I'm almost set back here."

So Brittany takes down the chairs, one by one, and pushes them back in. When she's done, she changes the newspapers to match today's date. Then she pulls up the blinds, and turns the sign to say "open" before sliding behind the counter.

It's always slow on Sunday mornings, until at least eight. Then it picks up, with young couples, mostly, going for a walk in the park, or to grab breakfast before church. Brittany likes to look at them as they come in, all happy smiles. She thinks that New York must be the happiest city in the world.

This day turns out to be even better, though, since at 9 o'clock Brittany's absolute favorite dolphin in the world walks in. She brightens up immediately when he walks in, and can't wait until he reaches her register.

"Hey, Brittany," Kurt says, sounding surprised. "I didn't know you were working today."

"I did," Brittany says. "That's why I'm here."

"How are you feeling today?"

"Good," Brittany says automatically. Kurt raises an eyebrow.

"No hangover?"

"Why would I have a hangover?"

Kurt just shrugs. "Nothing. Just. . .I don't think Blaine's getting up any time soon."

"Oh," Brittany says, trying to sound like she understands, even though she really doesn't. "Two grande nonfat lattes?"

"No," Kurt says, pulling out his wallet. "Just one, and a medium drip. Rachel has an emergency rehearsal today, so no Breakfast at Tiffany's."

"Oh," Brittany says, plugging the order into the computer so that it rings up a total. "I'm sorry. I'll get Breakfast at Tiffany's with you."

"That's sweet," Kurt says, "but I think it will be way past breakfast time when you get off work. I'm going shopping later, though if you want to come."

"Okay," Brittany says. "7.14."

Kurt hands over the money, and tells her that he'll send her a text later. When he moves on, Brittany smiles at the next customer.

"Hello," she says. "You're very handsome."

The man looks taken aback, but also pleased. People are always surprised when she compliments them, but they're happy, too.

Xxx

Brittany meets Kurt just outside Bloomingdale's. He's punching numbers into his phone, and looks sad, so when he slides the phone into his back pocket, she reaches out and takes his hand. He glances down, surprised.

"Your hands still feel like a baby," she tells him. "Are you sad?"

"No. . ." Kurt says. "Well, maybe a little. Are you sad?"

"No," Brittany says. "Not if you aren't."

"Great," Kurt says. "Then let's go get our shop on."

She likes shopping with Kurt, because he has her try on funny outfits, and then he tells her how beautiful she looks. Also, she tells him to try on funny outfits, and sometimes he actually buys them. They go through the entire store, pretending to be each other's personal shoppers. When they finish, Kurt is grinning from ear to ear and doesn't look sad at all.

"I needed that," he says, as they walk out of the store and head down Fifth Avenue toward the park. "I guess sometimes I just need some good girl time."

"We should have sleepovers again," Brittany suggests. "Like we did in senior year. You and me, Santana, Rachel, Mercedes, and Tina."

"Well," Kurt says with a chuckle, "maybe not Mercedes and Tina, but definitely the rest of us. You'd like that."

"Uh-huh," Brittany says. "You give the best facials."

"That's true," Kurt agrees. "I really do."

They sit down on a bench, and Kurt hands her a croissant. She bites into it, and closes her eyes, just enjoying the sounds of kids laughing and the buttery taste on her tongue.

"Brittany. . ." Kurt says. "Do you ever feel lonely?"

"Sometimes," Brittany admits, after she swallows her bite. "When it's nighttime, and Santana's still at work, so I'm all alone. Or sometimes when I finish work, and Ronnie has to go home to her kids, and I just walk around alone. Or sometimes when I see really happy people in the store. But then I'm happy for them, so it's okay."

"Yeah," Kurt says slowly. "Sometimes I feel lonely, too."

"But it's okay," Brittany says hurriedly. She doesn't like when her friends are sad, and right now Kurt looks very, very sad. She leans over and pats his arm. "You have Blaine, and he loves you. And Santana, and Rachel, and your roommate. . .you don't have to be lonely."

"Yeah," Kurt says, "but don't you sometimes feel like they're just moving forward, and we're just standing still? Like they'll find someone else, and just leave us behind?"

Brittany frowns, because she doesn't really understand. "Blaine loves you," she says, and wonders if maybe the other boy has never said that. It's so obvious to her that the two boys are in love.

Kurt smiles at her, but it's a sad smile. "Yes," he says. "He does. And Santana loves you. I guess it's just the fall air, making me a little homesick."

He leans over and hugs her, and Brittany smiles again. Hugging friends is good. It's nice, so she presses a small kiss to his neck.

"I love you, Kurt," she says, because her mother always taught her that you can never say those words too much. They make Kurt smile.

"I love you, too, Britt."

Xxx

Santana isn't there when she gets home, but that isn't surprising. Santana doesn't like the apartment at all, and if Brittany isn't there or she isn't sleeping, she tries to find something to do outside. Still. Brittany thinks that it would probably be nice if she could come home one day to find her girlfriend waiting for her. There's a meow from near her feet, and then a warm, furry body pressed up against her. She smiles as she leans down to pick up her obese cat.

"Hello, Lord Tubbington," she says. "Are you hungry?"

She isn't supposed to feed him, except for the morning. The vet was very determined about that. But she can't just leave him without food, not when he's looking at her so pleadingly, pressing his head into her hand. So she sneaks over to the fridge.

Before she has a chance to open the door, she hears a creak from the front of the apartment. She closes the fridge quickly, leaning her back against it.

"Hey, Britt?"

She walks out into the center of the room, and smiles. Santana drops a bag of groceries on their makeshift table, and loosens up her arms.

"Have a good day shopping with Kurt?"

"I did," Brittany says. "You went shopping?"

"Yeah," Santana says. "We were running low on food. Anyway. We'll put it away later."

Brittany blinks. Santana is shifting from foot to foot, looking kind of awkward. And she _never_ wants to just leave food out. She usually says that it's just asking for flies and rats and the last thing their crappy apartment needs is vermin.

"Okay," Brittany says slowly. Santana's head jerks up, abruptly, searing black eyes meeting Brittany's own.

"I want to take you out," she says.

"We just went out last night."

Santana moves forward, and clutches her hand. "No," she says low and throaty. "I want to take you out. Like a date. I want to go to a movie with you, and hold your hand, and make out, and irritate the old ladies."

Brittany can't keep the smile off her face. She reaches out, remembering something from the afternoon, and twines her fingers around her girlfriend's.

"There's a free movie playing in Central Park tonight," she suggests. Santana breathes out, seems to relax a little, and smiles.

"Yeah," she says. "That sounds perfect."

**A/N: Methinks Brittany and Kurt make a darling little couple. Of course, that leaves Blaine and Santana to be the other pair of besties, which means some solid Blaintana coming up. Hey, if I keep writing it, maybe it will happen for real! Reviews are love, and thanks to those of you who do take the time to post a review.**

**COMING SOON: The Hudmels travel to NYC, Kurt decides to study, and things get a little. . .heated. . .between our two favorite boys when they head out to Craft for dinner. **


	9. Washington Square: Kurt

13:57

**A/N: Okay, a little surprise before I run off to Chicago. Because Klaine is so easy to write (so much fluffiness and cuteness!) it just flew out. Enjoy!**

Mid terms. The word has been ominously floating around campus since the first day, but Kurt had just pushed it to the back of his mind. Then it had reappeared again when he'd received his syllabi, but October 15 had seemed so far away that it wasn't worth the worry. And now. . .now it's October 13, and he's so not ready.

He only has two exams, so he supposes that he's lucky in that regard. But even two seems insurmountable as he stares at three binders he's filled with notes, and the four textbooks mounted ominously on top of his desk. The worst is that they're all classes he hates. Biology and Math. . .his advisor had insisted that it was a good idea to get all of his core credits finished right away.

He should have known better.

He's still staring at the books, still hasn't started studying, an hour later when his roommate walks in. Tim is still sweating from the gym, and throws his duffel with nonchalance at his bed before walking to the closet to grab a towel. Kurt sighs.

"Whatcha doing?" Tim asks, pausing before he walks out the door.

"Studying."

"Hmm. . ." Tim raises an eyebrow. "I'm going down to Washington Square to study with some friends, once I get out of the shower. Do you want to come?"

He's out the door before Kurt has a chance to answer, already whistling. Kurt sighs, and considers. He as a Skype session with home set up for eight, but it's only two in the afternoon. On the other hand, he doesn't really know any of Tim's friends, and he's not sure that he'll have fun, or get much done with them. Then again, he hasn't gotten anything done on his own, either.

He picks up his phone, and idly slides it on. Outside of Brittany, he hasn't really heard from much of anyone else. Rachel not only has midterms, but is frantically preparing for the performance, which is next weekend. Santana has an academic scholarship, so she's positively paranoid about her grades. Blaine, on the other hand, could pull a 2.0, and his parents are so rich that they would let him stay. That does not, however, stop Blaine from obsessively studying. Plus his GTBL group is planning a mid-semester awareness dance, and the Kingsmen have constant performances. . .

Kurt thinks about what his dad would say. Rather, he thinks about what his Dad _did_ say, just before dropping him off at the airport.

_His dad looks broken-hearted, and there's a part of Kurt that wants to stay behind and take care of him. After all, how will his father possibly survive without him? Who will make sure that he eats healthy? Who will make sure that he doesn't work too long of hours, that he rests, that he gets 9.5 hours of sleep and at least 30 minutes of cardio exercise a day? If he has another heart attack, who will visit him at the hospital?_

_ As all the doubts are crescendoing in his head, however, Carole also steps forward, and Finn, and his heart stutters back into a regular rhythm. His dad isn't alone. There are people he's leaving behind, people who will care for Burt Hummel as well as, if not better than, his son. And besides, there are people in New York who will need him, too. Rachel Berry is horribly obnoxious. . .it took her three years to make friends in high school. If the same is true in college she'll be in desperate need of a confidante. And Blaine. . ._

_ Well, Blaine doesn't really need looking after. But there is no way that Kurt is running the risk of some big city trollop swooping in and stealing his man._

_ "Listen, Kurt," his dad says, after clearing his voice a few times. "I know you're going to have some friends in the city. And that's great, it is, but just. . .get out some, okay? Get to know some new people."_

_ "Are you telling me not to stay friends with Rachel and Blaine?" Kurt asks, instantly suspicious. His dad has always tried so hard to be supportive, but the truth is that he's always been kind of wary of Blaine. But his dad shakes his head instantly._

_ "No. Rachel is a wonderful young lady and Blaine is. . .look. Your mom and I got married right after high school. I'm not going to tell you that high school relationships don't last. But. . .just keep your options open."_

_ Kurt desperately wants to lash out at his dad. He and Blaine are forever. . .they're soulmates, star-crossed lovers, meant to be together forever. They are. . .but he doesn't want to fight with his dad, not at the airport, not when he's about to leave for several months. So instead he just says "I'm not going to break up with Blaine. But I'll think about your words, Dad. Really, I will."_

He hasn't, of course. He hasn't paid attention at all, but now the words come back to him and he has to wonder. He's a quarter of the way through his freshman year, and what does he have to show for it? He still has his gorgeous boyfriend, and his high-maintenance best friend, but that's not saying much, since he came in with them. He's become closer to Santana and Brittany, but once again, they're friends from high school. The only friend he has at NYU is Tim, although his friendly enough with kids in his classes. It probably wouldn't hurt to get to know some other people. Yeah, he probably won't be friends with anyone that Tim gets along with – they are pretty much polar opposites, after all. But it's a start, isn't it?

Oh, Gaga, what is he going to wear?

He's only just come up with an outfit when Tim returns, viciously toweling his hair. Kurt shimmies into a pair of jeans as his roommate similarly gets dressed across the room.

"You coming with?" Tim asks, sounding surprised. Kurt glances up. Oh, no. Tim hadn't thought he'd say yes. He'd only asked to be polite, and he really doesn't want him to come at all. And now Kurt's going to be crashing and. . . "Awesome!" Tim enthuses. "You're really good at English and art and stuff, right?"

Kurt kind of nods. Tim considers chatting the entire way out of the dorm, about how much Kurt is going to love someone named Marnie, and how Todd is desperately in need of help in math, and hey, is Kurt still dating his boyfriend, because if not he should totally try going out with Stephen, and. . . And it's all a little much, honestly, but it's also good. Like, really good. Kurt's beginning to feel a little more like his usual, flashy glamorous self, just walking outside.

Xxx

Kurt glances at himself critically in the mirror. There are freckles appearing on his nose, and his cheeks are tinged just a tad too pink to be a healthy flush. He _knew_ that he should have put on sunscreen – he _knew_ it, but Tim had laughed at him, and insisted that nobody wore sunscreen in the fall, and that the ozone wasn't as thin here as it is in Ohio, and oh God, he knows better, but he still hadn't worn any sunscreen.

And now it's ruined. Years and years of careful moisturizing and application of sunscreen, all gone to ruin. He has freckles. And a sunburn. And one day, those freckles and sunburn will become wrinkles, and age spots, and he'll be old and ugly and all of those hours will be wasted.

His computer pings and he sighs. There's no time to worry about it now. His dad is clearly on Skype, and Burt struggles with computers so much that if Kurt doesn't sign on right away and accept a call, he'll have to spend the first seven minutes of conversation explaining once again to his dad how Skype works. And he'll have to explain why he wasn't at the computer when he was supposed to be.

Instead, he just smooths his hair back expertly and perches in front of his computer. Accept call.

"Hi, Dad!" Requisite perky voice. His dad blinks at him, a little owlishly, before grinning back.

"Hey, Kurt!" He says, waving. "Carole, Finn, come here! It's Kurt!

A minute later another pair of smiling faces appear, just over his dad's shoulder, and he can't help but giggle at little. Carole is wearing her regular, warm expression, and Finn is grinning as goofy as anything.

"Hey, Kurt!" Finn says eagerly. "Have you talked to Rachel? She says she can't talk to me because she's trying to method something and doesn't like guys. Do you know what that means? Do – ow, Burt, stop poking me!"

"We're not spending this whole conversation talking about your love problems," Burt says.

"Rachels' kind of stressed right now," Kurt says. "She's scored a lead in Julliard's fall production, which is a really big deal. Method acting is trying to get into the head of a character. Her character is a lesbian, which is why she said she doesn't like boys any more. Any more questions?"

Finn's mouth gapes open and closed, a fish out of water. "Wait. . .my girlfriend is a lesbian?"

Kurt's eyes cross a little bit. He's incredibly glad that Tim is out of the room, on a date or something, because he doesn't think that he could deal with Finn's confusion and Tim's subsequent hysterics.

"No," he says shortly, instead of trying to explain anything. Finn considers for a moment, before bobbing his head good-naturedly and running off. Apparently, now that the Rachel part of the discussion is over, he has no further interest in the conversation. Kurt was all right with that. Sometimes it was exhausting trying to keep himself at his stepbrother's level.

"So, now that's out of the way. . ." His dad coughs once, a little awkwardly. "How you doing, kid?"

Kurt considers for a moment. He can just say that he's fine. . .if he says it twice, his dad will listen to him and leave him alone. On the other hand, he really needs to talk, and he doesn't have anyone who understands. Blaine tries, but he doesn't have a clue, and Rachel is. . .well, frankly a bit AWOL with all of her rehearsals for the show. Which leaves Brittany.

"I've been thinking about the advice you gave me," Kurt says. His dad stares at him, uncomprehending. "At the airport?" Kurt suggests. Apparently he's said something wrong, though, because his father's expression caves in on itself until he's glaring.

"Did Blaine do something?" he asks. "Little no good, rich, namby pamby hobbit."

"No, no," Kurt says, smiling a little and waving his hands. "No, Blaine is still amazing. We have a date tonight. I meant the advice about making new friends."

"Oh, yeah," Burt calms down almost instantly, nodding his head and tugging his hat a little further down over his eyes. "That advice. So you've. . .uh. . .you've made some new friends, then?"

Kurt sighs, and gives a small, sad smile. "I went and studied outside today. With some new people. It was nice."

"That's. . .good. . ." Despite his words, Burt Hummel looks a lot uncertain, and a little panicked. Kurt realizes that it's probably because he's crying. Carole, still watching over her husband's shoulder, leans forward.

"Baby, it's okay," she soothes. "It just takes time."

And then Kurt is crying, he's really crying. He's telling them about not getting into the groups, about Blaine being busy and Rachel being obsessed. He tells them about Santana and Brittany, living downtown, and about Tim and his endless stream of new girlfriends. He tells them about midterms and finals, studying and note-taking. He tells them that he's homesick. He tells them that he wants to come back to Lima.

"Oh, baby, everyone feels like that sometimes," Carole says. "Everyone gets homesick."

No, he wants to tell her. Rachel isn't homesick. Santana and Brittany aren't homesick. But instead he just nods, a little tearfully. His dad opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something, but Carole puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"Just hang in there until next weekend, kiddo," Burt says, his voice a little thick.

Kurt nods, and gathers himself. He flicks his hair back, and forces a smile on his face. "Obviously," he says. "Hummels are tough."

"That's right, kiddo," Burt agrees. "That's right."

Xxx

Kurt just stares a the menu. $28 for fish. Just the fish. A side of broccoli is $14. There's no way that he can afford this place. He tries, frantically, to find anything on the menu that costs less, but most of the meals are over $50. His gaze flickers to his boyfriend. Blaine, of course, is perfectly calm and collected. He's wearing one of his favorite outfits, pressed pants and a collared shirt under a cardigan. He looks divine in the soft lighting of the restaurant, shadows playing across his face, and picking up on the honey in his eyes.

Blaine must have noticed Kurt's stare, for he glances up at just the moment, his eyes warm, like firelight is dancing behind them. Kurt chokes a little. Is this his life? Really? Dinner at fancy restaurants with such a beautiful boyfriend? It's what he's always been dreaming of, but somehow it doesn't feel real, now. He starts to shake.

"Babe?" Blaine's brow is furrowed, and he leans over, clutching at Kurt's hand. It's even worse, that catchy, clichéd endearment.

"Don't call me that," Kurt says. Blaine widens his eyes, and sits back a little.

"Kurt?" he asks. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Kurt takes a moment to consider before answering. He feels it, then, in the dim lighting, in the clatter of forks and spoons and silverware. This is one of those moments, he can tell, where things can go very wrong of very right. He stares at Blaine's profile, the melted chocolate of his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and smiles. He rubs his thumb against the palm of his boyfriend's hand.

"I was talking to my dad before coming here," he admits softly. "And I guess I was feeling a little homesick."

Blaine nods, his lips twitching a little. "I know what you mean," he says, his voice echoing the gentle strum of a guitar. "It's great that my parents got me my own apartment but sometimes. . .it gets really lonely."

They both sit there for a moment, studying one another. Kurt's heart is lifted, a little, at the knowledge that even Blaine, preppy, confident Blaine, has moments of uncertainty. It is a waiter who breaks the moment, coming in with a smarmy smile and misfitting black pants.

"Are you two ready to order?" he asks. Blaine raises an inquisitory eyebrow, and Kurt panics, his eyes searching the menu again.

"Just a minute, please," Blaine says pleasantly, and the waiter disappears back into the shadows. Kurt can feel his eyes, still on him, waiting.

"Everything's so expensive," he says finally, a little helplessly.

"Don't worry about it," Blaine says, waving him off. "I've got this."

Kurt doesn't feel that guilty about letting Blaine pay (again). Blaine's parents, after all, are practically floating in money, and they're constantly trying to buy his affection with it, to make up for their pathetic relationship with credit cards and gift certificates. Still, it's beginning to make him feel like one of those kept women from the romance novels that he still reads (though he hides them carefully under his mattress so that Tim doesn't mock him about it).

When the waiter returns, they order. Blaine gets steak and potatoes, while Kurt opts for the fish and broccoli rabe. The waiter nods twice, tells them that they've made some wonderful selections, and then disappears again.

"You know," Kurt says idly after the food comes. He spears a piece of broccoli, and twirls it in the air, hoping that he looks sophisticated, but fully aware of the fact that he probably looks like a moron. "If you're really all that lonely in your apartment, I could. . .I could stay there, sometimes. If you want."

The look on Blaines' face stops his heart for a moment. Blaine's face lights up with all the joy and excitement that's present in his stage appearances. His eyes sparkle, as though lit from something within, crinkling a little at the edges. His teeth gleam against the velvet darkness of the restaurant, and Kurt feels something warm and bouncy in the bottom of his stomach.

"I don't mean. . .I don't mean that I'll stay like _that_," Kurt says hastily, tripping over his tongue. Blaine leans forward, getting a bit of gravy on his cardigan as he speaks quickly, trying to reassure.

"I didn't think. . .I don't mean. . .really?"

And then they're both grinning at one another across the table, goofy, lovestruck expressions on their faces. Kurt is the first one to look away, because there's still unfinished fish on his plate, and he's not going to just waste Blaine's parents money, no matter how little it means to them. He hears the scrape of cutlery across the table, and realizes that Blaine has returned to eating as well. He chances a glance at the other boy, and is pleased to see that his boyfriend is chewing slowly, fighting to keep the smile off his face. Kurt finds himself smirking a little, too.

Usually they love to linger over dinner, feeding each other tidbits and acting out the parts of every romantic comedy ever seen. But this night is different, and they're both itching to leave and head back uptown. Blaine practically throws his credit cad back at the waiter, and when they're asked if they want dessert they both promptly spit out a no.

They get a taxi, which only means that Blaine is shelling out more money, but Kurt doesn't care. They sit as far apart from one another as they can in the taxi, both gazing out the window. Across the seat, they clasp hands. Kurt is glad to feel that Blaine is trembling, shaking just the tiniest bit. Good. He's not the only one.

Blaine practically throws his cash at the cabbie as they leave the taxi. Kurt pauses for a moment on the sidewalk, wrapping his arms around him. It's almost Halloween, and he can almost taste winter on the air. He stares up at the apartment building, trying to pick out the window to his boyfriend's apartment. He shivers a little, before solid warmth is pushed against him, and Blaine's arms cover his own. He doesn't know why he's hesitating, why he's suddenly so cold. He's been here dozens of times, to lounge on the couch, watch tv, and prep for a walk in the park.

He's never spent the night.

They walk in together, hand in hand. Blaine waves at the doorman, who raises one eyebrow and fails to hide a grin behind his large hand. They lean against one another in the elevator. Kurt closes his eyes and thinks about how they're breathing the same air.

They're both nervous when they walk into the apartment, and Kurt realizes with a panic that they haven't thought this out at all. He doesn't have his pajamas, or his moisturizing creams, or his hair products. He's going to look like a mess in the morning, and Blaine's going to see him with sleep gunk in his eyes, and alligator skin, and bedhead. The illusion will be shattered.

He's about to leave, about to apologize and just run out of there as fast as his designer boots can take him, when he suddenly finds his hands filled with cool silk. Blaine is grinning at him, still goofy and overly excited. He points at the material in Kurt's hands.

"My grandma gives me a pair of pajamas every Christmas," he explains. "I don't even know why I still have those. I hate them but I thought. . .maybe. . ."

Kurt shakes them out, experimentally. They're made of good silk, not a cheap blend. He doesn't see a label on them. They're the color of a hazy day at the beach, shifting greys and blues. He knows that he'll look fantastic in them.

"Thanks," he says softly, peering up askance at his boyfriend through his eyelashes. Blaine sucks in a quick breath at that and leans forward, clutching Kurt's cheek in one hand, and brushing a gentle kiss against his lips.

"You're amazing," he whispers, and that's enough to make Kurt lean more into the kiss, dropping the pajamas on the floor. They lie, a forgotten puddle, as the boys move to the couch and fall onto it in a tangled mass of limbs. They know each other so well by this point that there's no awkwardness. Their teeth don't clash against one another, they don't fumble awkwardly. They know what the other likes, know when to pull back, and when to dive forward again. They don't flinch anymore when the shirts come off, just shiver deliciously as they brush kisses against pale skin.

Xxx

Kurt wakes up in a bed that's not his own, beneath sheets that have a higher thread count than any he's ever been able to afford. He's spread out over the immense bed, not curled up like he's used to. Sun filters in quietly from the windows. The other side of the bed is empty, and Kurt frowns.

He doesn't remember how he wound up in the bed, just remembers cuddling up beside Blaine, watching Breakfast at Tiffany's. He stands up, determined to find his boyfriend, but the wood floor is cold against the pads of his feet. He sucks in a sharp breath as cold air brushes against the cool silk. The bed beckons, still warm and cozy.

Instead of retreating back into the safe cocoon, Kurt pulls the comforter off, and wraps it around himself. He tiptoes over to the door, which is slightly open, and pushes it back.

Blaine is stretched out on the sofa, still fully dressed. One of his arms falls off the side, and his fingers dangle centimeters above the floor. He has one of the pillows from his bed under his head.

Kurt pauses for a moment to smile at the sight. He's never seen Blaine so blissfully asleep. He's seen him half-conscious at the ends of movies, and has seen him drooling on long car rides, but he's never seen him in such deep slumber. His curls are a delightful mess on his head, and those eyelashes cast butterfly shadows on his cheeks.

He can't help himself. As much as he wants to let his boyfriend sleep, as much as he wants to allow him this peace, he needs to see those hazel eyes peering up at him, the green specks and amber sparkle. So he leans over, and gives the other boy a peck on the end of his nose. Blaine just frowns, and snuggles deeper into the couch. Kurt, refusing to give in, just gives him another, more forceful kiss, this time on the lips.

Blaine's eyes fly open, and they're glazed and cloudy with sleep. Kurt watches as he focuses, as a slow smile spreads across his cheeks, as he reaches up and stretches, languorously, like a cat.

"Good morning, beautiful."  
>Kurt thinks that he could get used to waking up to those words.<p>

**A/N: Originally the dinner was supposed to be filled with angst, but then I figured that poor Kurt is having enough issues, and these two have some pretty dark stuff coming up, so I decided to give them their fluff while they still have the chance to enjoy it. Sorry for the utter lack of Rachel and Brittana. . .everyone's in the next chapter, I promise!**

**COMING SOON: The Hudmels travel to NYC, Finchel has some big decisions to make, Rachel makes her New York debut, and the greatest double date of all time occurs: Klainchelin! You know I was thinking, and it's kind of awesome. . .Kurt used to love Finn. Blaine and Rachel dated. Now Rachel and Finn date. Now Kurt and Blaine date. Rachel and Kurt are besties. Now if I can just create a bromance between Finn and Blaine, it will be the ultimate, incestuous date! Hmmm. . .**


	10. Lincoln Center II: Rachel

13:57

**A/N: Back! Sorry for the loooooong hiatus. Between work, moving, the earthquake, and the hurricane, it's been a busy few months! Anyway, "Concrete Jungles" is back and going strong. As always, reviews are love, and thanks so much for sticking with me over the break.**

This is the greatest day of her young life. This is the day that she stops being Rachel (star) Berry and becomes Rachel Berry: star. All of the students have been gossiping: some of the older students say that Broadway producers have a tendency to scout shows out, and there's a campus wide legend who supposedly left in the middle of her freshman year to join a play on the West End. Rachel just knows that if any of them show up at her show tonight that she is bound to know them dead, and will no doubt have to choose between continuing her schooling, or chasing her dreams on the Broadway stage.

It isn't hard to figure out which one will win.

She stares at herself in the mirror. The same reflection that she's seen for the past three years, ever since competing puberty, stares back at her. Straight eyebrows. Full lips. A nose perhaps a tad bit too large, but really it gives her personality and inspires pride in her Hebraic heritage. Lustrous hair. Sparkling brown eyes.

Get ready, New York theater scene. The city will never be the same.

She's just picking up her hairbrush, prepared to launch into the necessary vocal warm-ups, when there's a knock on her door. She frowns. To answer, or not to answer. . .Marion isn't even around, having left at five a.m. to begin practicing. Cellists, Rachel has noted, are just as obsessive as vocalists and other performers. Her roommate's concert is the following weekend, and she' been gone from the dorm almost nonstop.

She assumes that if she waits long enough her visitor will leave. Unfortunately, mysterious knocker is very persistant, and shows no sign of going away. With a sigh, she sets down her hairbrush and heads over.

"Yes, what is it?" she begins talking, even as she opens the door. "I have a very important performance tonight and it is imperative that. . ." her speech comes to an abrupt stop as she sees who is actually present. "Daddies!"

She leaps forward and throws her arm around both of her (gay) dads. Hiram smiles and hugs her back instantly, while Leroy scoffs a little, though Rachel stills his arm just as tight around her back. Rachel just clings to them for a good minute, before finally pulling back and staring at them.

"What are you doing here? I thought you couldn't make it until the actual performance!"  
>"We lied," Hiram says with a grin. "We wanted to surprise our princess!"<p>

"Our baby girl," Leroy agrees. Hiram's smile trembled the tiniest bit, and within a moment, fat tears are gathering in his eyes and pouring down his face.

"Oh, baby princess," he gushes. "Look at you. You're so beautiful. You're so grown up!"

Rachel grins, as Leroy rolls his eyes good-naturedly and puts his arm around his husband. It's beyond wonderful to see them again, and she realizes how much she's missed them. Which is kind of strange, really, the fact that she didn't know until this very moment how much she's missed just having her daddies around.

Which is not to say that she isn't totally self-sufficient, because she is absolutely capable of taking card of herself.

Still, it just makes what she has to do next even harder. But as she opens her mouth to tell them that although she's delighted that they were able to come in early, it is absolutely imperative that she complete her pre-show routine and . . .

"Well, we'd better get going," Leroy interrupts her thought process. "We know that you must have lots to do to get ready."

"We just wanted to stop in and tell you how much we love you," Hiram says, "and how proud we are of you." Leroy winks, and begins tugging at his husband's arm. Rachel's smile grows even wider. Not only do her dads appreciate the hard work and effort that goes into a production: they actually approve, and are giving her the space that she needs. She is pretty sure that the brightness in her smile could power a solar car for a good five miles at that point. She waves furiously at her dads as they head down the hall, nearly giggling as Hiram points at all of the walls and Leroy just pats him on the shoulder.

Xxx

She's not nervous. The strange, fluttery sensation in her stomach isn't butterflies, or preshow jitters. Standing in the dark backstage of the Lincoln Center soundstage, she is completely and utterly prepared to wow and amaze the audience. She absolutely does _not_ have stage fright. Stage fright belongs only to the unprepared.

"Hey," Chris says gently, clapping her on the shoulder. "Calm down, you're going to do fine."

Rachel bristles initially. After all, Chris is merely an _understudy_, one of the less talented freshman who didn't manage to score a speaking role in the production. He's an understudy for the part of Mark which, admittedly, means that he has _some_ potential, but he is clearly not on the same playing field as she, with stardom bursting out of her every pore.

Then again, Chris is unwaveringly nice to absolutely everyone, and walks around with a lopsided grin. He has kind, brown eyes, and always manages to miss a patch of stubble, just below his right ear, when he shaves. He's tall, too, but a bit scrawny. It won't help him secure roles on-stage. It does, however, remind Rachel of one Finn Hudson.

Her heart twinges a little at the though of her erstwhile boyfriend. She hadn't asked him to come to her performance: one of the agreements in their long-distance relationship. They both have to learn to be less needy and more considerate of one another. Between his injury, studies at OSU, and the football season, she knows that Finn has plenty on his plate, and that flying to New York to see a student production isn't, and shouldn't, be at the top of his priority list.

That doesn't make his absence sting any less.

So, because Finn isn't there and Chris is, and because Chris somehow reminds her of Finn, Rachel doesn't snap or roll her eyes at his gentle encouragement. Instead she smiles, allowing her lips to tremble just a bit and her eyes to widen (she is perfecting her portrayal of young ingénue: she plans to appeal to casting directors for her sparkling personality along with her prodigious abilities).

"Thanks," she says. "I'm just amazed that I'm finally here. My entire life I've dreamed of performing in New York, and now it's finally happening."

"Yeah," Chris agrees, bobbing his head. "I think we all feel the same way."

Indeed, there is an air of hushed excitement backstage. There's no aura of calm professionalism or restrained confidence: instead there is a bustle of nervous undergraduates, amazed at their own good fortune. Outside the closed curtain the audience is loud and raucous: family and friends more invested in the performers than the show itself.

The orchestra begins to play, and several of the stagehands, dressed in black and with self-important clipboards, run around, reminding the principals to take their places. Chris squeezes her should one more time, whispering "good luck" into her ear before he fades back to take his place with the other faceless chorus members. Rachel takes a deep breath and steps forward to her blocking position, beside the attractively dorky boy playing Mark and the stunning blond portraying Joanne.

The curtains go up and the stage lights shine.

She squints at first, a primal instinct that her teacher had told her not to give in to. She can already feel the heat of the lights on her. This is so much different than her performances with New Directions, completely different than the McKinley senior musical. All of the faces before her are interested, raptly paying attention to the action on stage. Nervously, she looks out into the dark audience, seeking her father's faces.

It takes her a moment to find them, which is all right, since she doesn't begin the singing, anyway. Hiram and Leroy are sitting stage left, which puts her off for a moment. She distinctly remembers telling them that the majority of her entrances are stage _right_, and she's a little irritated that they didn't listen. Only for a moment, however, until she sees who they are sitting with.

Kurt is perusing the playbill, chewing absently at his lower lip. Beside him, Blaine has scotched forward to the edge of his seat and is leaning forward slightly. Santana reclines back, looking incredibly bored, while Brittany appears to be counting the ceiling tiles. Beside her is a tall, goofy-looking boy with a wide, lop-sided grin on his face.

_Finn_.

She almost misses her entrance, so focused on her boyfriend's face. But, of course, she is the consummate performer, and almost unbidden the words spring to her lips.

_525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear_

_525,600 minutes, how do you measure, measure a year?_

She and Finn, sitting in the library, their backs against the bookcases. He's telling her that he loves her, that he wants to spend senior year with her. She tells him that they can't, that it's impractical. She reminds him that she's leaving for New York after graduation, and unspoken lies the truth: that there's no way he'll get into an East Coast School.

_In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights and cups of coffee_

_In inches, in miles of laughter and strife_

Finn's lips on her own, nervous explorations in her bedroom and his, in the back of Kurt's Navigator (not that either of them ever told him). The drive-in movie that had Finn absolutely flummoxed, unable to understand how to find the proper radio station, torn between leaving the car running and turning it off. Lazy afternoons at the Lima Bean, sometimes with Kurt and Blaine, sometimes with Marcus and Mercedes. Summer days at Cedar Point and night strolls down the almost-abandoned mall corridors.

_How do you measure the life of a woman or man?_

_ In truths that she learned or in times that he cried_

_ In bridges he burned or the way that she died_

Standing at the airport, bright purple bag thrown over her shoulder. Hiram and Leroy hugging her tightly and reminding her that she will always be their baby girl. And then Finn, hastily wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, leaning forward and crushing her in his arms. She fits so well against him, completely cradled by his bigger body. She feels complete when she's with him, protected. He doesn't say anything charming or loving. . .he just chokes back emotion and kisses her on the top of her head, before she passes through the security checkpoint.

_It's time now to sing out, though the story never ends_

_ Let's celebrate, remember a year in the lives of friends_

Xxx

Rachel busts into the atrium. She feels like she's high, or drunk. All of the colors surrounding her are brighter than she's ever seen them before. The sound of laughter echoing around Lincoln Center is musical, notes tumbling over one another. Even the air, a little stale a recycled, smells beautiful.

She knows that her cheeks are red, and her shirt feels tight and sweaty, but she just can't bring herself to care. She barrels through her classmates, shoving elbows into sides and swatting away congratulatory hugs. She has a mission, and all of her self-centered, career-driven peers are getting in her way.

It isn't hard to find her friends in the crush of the atrium. Finn is a foot taller than anyone else, and Hiram is crying louder than the rest of the room combined. She dodges around Professor Roberts, ducks under Chris's attempted high-five, and throws herself at her boyfriend.

Retrospectively, she realizes that she probably should have said something, given some kind of warning. As is, she barrels into him unawares, nearly pushing him over. As is, he stumbles back several steps, his arms reflexively curling around her body. His hip rams into Blaine, sending the shorter boy sprawling to the ground with an undignified squawk.

It doesn't matter, though. Kurt's tut-tutting, Santana's acerbic comments, Hiram's explosion of crying – it's all just a background to this reunion. Because this – _this _is romance. Star-crossed lovers, reunited at last. Earth-shaking love, crossing the world – or at least, the United States.

"Rachel, you were _awesome_," Finn says, finally, after the groans from surrounding spectators finally convinced them to pull back from their knee-popping kiss. "Really, really _awesome_."

"I can't believe you're here"! Rachel sighs, reaching up and chasing his cheekbones with her fingers. "How did you get here."

"I took a plane!" Finn responds enthusiastically.

"We were going to get your flowers for your performance," Leroy says, "But then we thought of something better."

"You. . .you. . ." Rachel bursts into tears, reaching out to hug both of her dads.

"And Blaine said that I could stay with him for the weekend," Finn adds helpfully. "And Puck said that he would actually go to class and take notes so that I could skip Friday."

It doesn't take long to realize that a reunion in the middle of Lincoln Center is not the best idea, and with Santana in charge, they push their way free of the crowd and explode onto the muggy New York sidewalk. Despite the warm air, Rachel shivers a little in her sweat-drenched shirt.

"Well," Leroy says playfully, "Hiram and I are absolutely bushed. Long flight and all."

"But. . ." Hiram protests.

"I think we're going to call it a night. You kids don't do anything we wouldn't do!"

"My God," Hiram gasps, glaring at Finn. "Actually, don't do things we _do_ do. Understand?" He then swivels to look at Kurt. "You, on the other hand, are encouraged to try some of the techniques we suggested. Do you still have those videos we gave you?"

Kurt turns bright red and begins sputtering, while Blaine just looks intensely interested. Leroy sighs indulgently and shakes his head, putting a gentle hand on Rachel's shoulder.

"Sweetheart, we'll see you at nine tomorrow for breakfast, right?"

"Of course, Daddy."

She's then engulfed again in both of her dad's arms, feeling tightly pressed kisses to the crown of her head.

"We're so proud of you, sweetie."

And then they're walking off, two smartly dressed men with their hands linked. Rachel feels a sudden, pressing sadness in her heart. She realizes that she doesn't need her dads anymore, which she finds inexplicably sad.

"We gots to get moving, too," Santana says, reaching out and grabbing Brittany's hand. "I promised my sorority sisters that we'd swing by their mixer tonight. We're already mad late."

Brittany nods solemnly. "But better late than wetter," she says.

"Good job, Rach," Santana says ruefully. "I hate to admit it, but. . .you really are a star."

"Thank you," Rachel says, surprisingly pleased by the rare compliment. "I'm really glad you came."

"Yeah, well. . .whatever," Santana says, shrugging off the sincerity of the words. "C'mon Brit. Let's make like a tree."

"Finn's as tall as a tree," Brittany says conversationally as they begin heading toward the subway. "Are we going to give him a makeover?"

The remaining four stand around, a little awkwardly. Rachel hums in the back of her throat.

"Well," Blaine says finally. "Where to now? It's like old times, isn't it? The four of us on a double date?"

"If I remember correctly, our double dates usually ended with you and Finn talking football and Rachel and I having a diva off," Kurt mutters.

"Not always," Finn protests. "There was that one time that you guys gave Rachel a makeover and I just sat there."

"Or the time that we went to see _Phantom_ at the community theater, and Finn just sat there," Blaine says helpfully.

"Or when we went to the beach and you got really, really bad sunscreen and I almost drowned and Rachel had to give me mouth-to-mouth, but she didn't know how, so Blaine had to, and then you got pissed that we were kissing."

"Or that time at the movies when we told Finchel we were going to the bathroom, but really we went to—"

"Okay, okay," Kurt says, lifting his hands, his face bright red again. "I concede! Some of our dates are even _more_ disastrous than I remembered."

Rachel giggles a little, and reaches out to catch both Kurt and Finn's hands. "Well, we haven't had a double date in New York City, yet. A lot of things have changed since Lima."

Kurt quirks one eyebrow, but Rachel can tell that it's all for show, now. He wants to melt into the comfortable camaraderie that the four of them share as much as she does. It's been a hard two months for all of them – Kurt getting cut from the singing groups, her failure to bond with her classmates, Finn's injury, Blaine. . .she glances quickly at the fourth member of their quartet. He's standing there with the same old easy charm, one arm loosely looped around Kurt's waist, a broad grin on his face. Well, maybe it hasn't been hard for all of them.

"I vote for the Popover Café!" Blaine says eagerly. Rachel claps her hands, and Kurt groans.

"What's that?" Finn asks, his head whipping back and forth between all of them.

"Only the greatest restaurant in New York!" Blaine says grandiosely.

"It looks like Aunt Marge's house," Kurt explains. Finn's eyes light up.

"Ooh. . .do they have cookies like Aunt Marge?" Kurt groans and elbows his older brother. Rachel giggles. "What?" Finn asks, a hurt expression on his face. "She makes great cookies."

**A/N: D'awww. . .Rachel, so cute. And no, I never thought that I would consider her to be all that cute. Anyway. . .**

**COMING SOON: Rachel and Kurt go on a date, Klaine have an intimate discussion. . .in the bedroom! (wah wah wah!), and Blaine learns the true value of the dollar. Meanwhile, Santana has a traumatic experience, Brittany is promoted to the cash register (who decided she can handle money?) and Finn makes a life-changing decision.**


	11. Morningside Heights: Blaine

13:57

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! Probably going to be down to just once a week updates. Super busy with school and work. To make up for it. . .Klaine!**

Blaine glances at himself in the mirror. He looks good, and he knows it. His hair has been carefully moussed, just the way that Kurt likes it, with height and weight, curly but soft, defined yet slightly unruly. He's wearing suspenders, because he knows how much Kurt loves them, and a pink shirt for the same reason.

It's the two year anniversary of Kurt's transfer to Dalton. Blaine knows it's a little silly that they celebrate all of these different anniversaries: the first time they met, when Blaine transferred, their first duet, their first kiss, their first date. . .but he feels horrible that they haven't been able to hang out more, and he just wants an excuse – any excuse – to be with his boyfriend. Besides, Kurt's been going through some tough things this semester, and he just wants a chance to make it better.

He's been planning it since Rachel's performance. RENT is one of Kurt's favorite plays, and even in a slightly smelly room, watching college students perform, his face had lit up in excitement, his lips parted slightly, mouthing along to each word. They'd gone out to most of the best restaurants in town, but he'd completely forgotten about Broadway – the reason that they had come to New York in the first place.

So he's gotten them tickets to Wicked, Kurt's absolute favorite show ever. He's rented a limo, has an order at the florist for a dozen carnations (because Kurt thinks they're friendlier than roses) and has set up candles in his room (can't fault a guy for trying, right?)

In short, it's going to be the most romantic night he and Kurt have ever had.

He's just spraying on some cologne when he hears a knock at his door. He frowns, unsure who could possibly be coming to see him on a late Friday afternoon. The only people that know where he lives are the Kingsmen, his friends from high school, and a few people from the GTBL organization. Maybe it's a soliciter, or a Jehovah's witness, or something. He pulls open the door.

Jon is standing there, a massive megaphone in his hand, which he lifts to his lips with a half smile.

"Ready for the Night of Lights?" he screams. Blaine blinks.

"I thought that was next week."

"Well, it was," Jon says, lowering the megaphone. "But then Dean Jackson remembered that the school contracted out for the polls next week, so it got moved back to this week. Didn't you get the email?"

Now that he's been reminded, Blaine realizes that he did get some emails. But he'd had an orgo midterm Wednesday, and polisci on Thursday, and hadn't opened anything in his inbox in over a week. He'd pretty much kept himself to classes and the library, desperate to get an A. He'd never in his life gotten less than an A-, but somehow he thought the rigors of McKinley were not quite the same as Columbia, and he felt like even Dalton hadn't fully prepared him.

Another reason he'd been looking forward to tonight. He hasn't seen Kurt in a week and a half. He's going through withdrawal.

"Oh, no. . ." Jon sounds seriously bummed out. He leans against the doorframe, megaphone falling almost listlessly to his side. "You can't come, can you?"

"I'm really sorry," Blaine says, helplessly holding out his arms. "I just didn't know. . .and I have plans with Kurt."

"Your boyfriend? He'd understand, though, wouldn't he? If he really loved you?"

Blaine's head jerks at that, and his eyes narrow. He peers at the other boy, but Jon's expression is guileless. Blaine _knows_ the other boy has a crush on him – he hasn't exactly been subtle. He also knows, from the brief interactions that the boys have had, that Jon is not a fan of Kurt. Still, Jon just looks mildly hopeful, and a little upset, and Blaine can't really blame him for either expression.

"Normally I'd just reschedule," Blaine tries to explain, "But it's our anniversary."

Jon frowns, confused. "Didn't you just have an anniversary a month ago?"

"That was celebrating when we met," Blaine tries to explain. "This is when he. . .you know what, never mind."

"It's just one night," Jon says, trying another tactic. "And it's kind of a big deal. Night of Lights is our biggest rally of the year. We were able to rebook most of the speakers, and a bunch of the performers, too. We have all of the candles ready. . .I mean, Kurt supports gay rights, doesn't he?"

Blaine bites his lip, torn. Nothing that Jon's saying is untrue – he'd heard about Columbia's Night of Lights, the night-long, candlelight vigil held in memory of victims of hate crimes, all the way back in Ohio. It's one of the main reasons he joined the GTBL student group. He's been looking forward to it since September.

On the other hand, he can feel the stiff cardboard of the theater tickets in his back pocket, can just imagine Kurt's blue eyes filling up with tears. Oh, he'll blink them back bravely, of course he will, but he'll be devastated.

"I understand," Jon says finally, when it's been a minute and Blaine still hasn't responded. "Tell Kurt I say hi. I guess we'll just have an hour of silence, instead of your set."

His set? The world crashes in on Blaine. He'd somehow forgotten that he'd volunteered to perform. Nine to ten is his slot – a time slot that will be completely empty if he doesn't show. There's no way Alice or Jon can fix it. . .not at this point, not when they've already had to reschedule everything. He supposes that maybe he could call in a favor with Rachel – she's a staunch gay rights supporter, and a consummate performer, but. . .

Rachel. Of course. He almost wants to hit himself on the head for not thinking of it beforehand.

"Hold on," he tells Jon. "I just have to make a quick call."

Xxx

He's exhausted when he waves to his doorman, Phil, who responds with. . .a wink? Blaine frowns, and then shakes his head. He must have imagined that, because it doesn't make any sense. His ears are still ringing with the feedback from the speakers, and little dots dance across his eyes, leftover illumination from the thousands of candles that had been lit.

He should be feeling high now, he thinks, with all of the energy of a successful rally. He should probably be out for drinks with the other members of the GTBL committee, or wandering through new people. But instead, all that he wants to do is climb into bed and go to sleep.

He wonders, briefly, if Kurt is mad at him. He stares at his reflection in the mirrored inside of the elevator: his hair is mussed and out of control, a five o'clock shadow has become a five o'clock mini-beard, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks, in short, like death warmed over. He shudders a little, in time with the elevator as it comes to a stop. Maybe it's just as well that Kurt didn't get to see him tonight. The fashionable boy might have screamed and run away in disgust.

Still. . .Blaine isn't entirely happy with his decision. Sure, Kurt had sounded okay on the phone, when he'd warned him about the change of plans, and Rachel, of course, had been over the moon at the opportunity to see Wicked. He sighs, and thinks idly of his bed. He knows that as soon as he crawls in it he'll feel lonely, even with the full moon peeking in through his window.

As he walks toward his apartment, he notices a slumped figure against his neighbor's door. A runaway kid, maybe, or a lover locked out? He's too tired to really care, but he files it away in the recesses of his mind. He'll figure out the mystery tomorrow. He takes out his key and fits it into the lock.

Except that it doesn't fit. With a weary frown, Blaine tries again, without luck, and then once more for good measure. It's no use, though, the key simply won't go in. He must have bent it somehow, or. . .well, he'll just have to go downstairs and have Phil send for a handyman. As he turns to do so, however, he catches the number on the door out of the corner of his eye. 7F. Which is strange, because he lives in 7E, which. . .

Oh. He walks over, chuckling a little at how exhausted he is if he's trying to get in the wrong door. Except that the strange, slumped figure is in front of his door. He groans, and rubs at his eyes. When he takes his hands away again, he gasps.

It's not some unknown slumped figure, it's Kurt. Dressed in his Broadway best, and clutching a phone between his two fingers. Blaine has no doubt that if he taps the screen he'll see Angry Birds. How could he ever have mistaken his boyfriend for a runaway?

He crouches down, and reaches out a hand to shake Kurt's shoulder. He misses, not by accident, and ends up caressing the other boys' face, instead. He sighs. Has Kurt's cheek always been this soft?

Kurt comes awake slowly, blinking his eyes against the fluorescent light of the hallway. He licks his lips, twice. "Blaine?" He mumbles.

"Hey," Blaine says softly. He reaches out a hand, and helps Kurt to his feet. Still half-asleep, the other boy curls into his side, eliciting a laugh from Blaine.

"Cuddlewhore," he whispers affectionately, as he slides his key into the lock. This time it goes in smoothly, and turns. He pulls his boyfriend in.

"What are you doing here?" Blaine asks, even as they stumble toward the bedroom.

"It's our anniversary," Kurt says. "This is the day when I first transferred to Dalton, remember?"

"Of course I remember," Blaine says. He flicks on the light switch, and instantly wishes that he hadn't when he sees Kurt glance around the room and raise one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. He'd forgotten about the candles.

"Expectations, Blaine?"

"Uh. . .no, no," he says hurriedly. "I just really like candles?"

"Uh-hmmm," Kurt says, and crawls onto the bed. "Well, I really like candles, too."

All of the exhaustion that's been plaguing Blaine instantly disappears, and he lurches to grab the lighter, tripping over his own feet in the process. Kurt just grins, crosses his legs, and primly places his hand over his knees.

After lighting five, Blaine decides it's sufficiently atmospheric, and flips off the light before joining Kurt on the bed. He doesn't do anything at first, just slips an arm around his boyfriend and leans in close. Kurt is warm, and smells like vanilla. It's nice.

"So really, why are you here?"

"I told you, it's our anniversary," Kurt says softly, his warm breath ghosting over the tip of Blaine's ear. "And while I appreciated the circularity of seeing Wicked with Rachel, I'd much rather see you."

"Uh-hmm," Blaine hums a little. He closes his eye, and lets out a long breath.

"How was your rally?"

"It was good, really good. We got the message out, and people seemed to really love the performances."

"Who performed?"

"Mm. . .a couple acoustic performances from Hungarian, Shilelagh Law, Hunter and Kim, me. . ."

Kurt stiffens a little, enough that Blaine notices and opens his eye. He tries to peer up at his boyfriend, but it's hard to make out more than a jawline in the dim lighting. Stupid candles.

"You performed?"

"Yeah. I mean, I was just filling in for one of the acts that had to cancel because of the change in date. . ."

Kurt sighs, and shifts away a little, so they aren't so close together. Blaine instantly straightens. He knew he'd messed up, breaking off their date, but Kurt hadn't really seemed upset. Hadn't he been encouraging, just a minute ago, flirtatious and all "come hithery"? (Oh, God, he'd spent too much time with Finn last weekend, because hithery is definitely not a word).

"Kurt what's wrong?"

"Nothing. . .I don't know," Kurt sighs and turns to him. "We've always been honest with one another, Blaine. Why didn't you tell me you were performing?"

Blaine is floored. Really? _This_ is why Kurt is upset?

"Yes, Blaine, _this_ is why I'm upset," Kurt said. Blaine realized that he'd just spoken aloud. "I just. . .I don't want you to cut me out of your life. I _want_ to be there to see you perform. We both went to Rachel's opening night, and that was _Rachel_."

Blaine winced. He hadn't really looked at it that way. He just knew that political activism wasn't really Kurt's thing, whereas Broadway definitely was. He opened his mouth to say just that, but yet again his boyfriend interrupted him.

"I don't know, Blaine. . .sometimes it feels like you treat me the same way that your parents treat you."

The world stops. Actually and really stops. He can't hear anything, can't feel anything, and for a moment can't even see anything. What Kurt has just said is the worst thing he can ever imagine. He's spent his entire life trying to be the exact opposite of his parents – of his father, especially. He's tried to be open-minded, accepting, warm and affectionate. He's been into the arts, and into political change, and into telling people just how he feels, whenever he feels it. He can't. . .he isn't. . .

A hand touches his, jolting him back to reality. He's been staring intently at his bedspread, apparently, and finally glances up. Kurt's greengreyblue eyes swim in front of his vision. He gulps.

He really wants to see regret in Kurt's eyes. He wants to see shame. Instead he just sees vast depths of hurt. Oh, God, is this how Kurt felt when he'd compared him to Karofsky, all those years ago? It's a jolt of pain.

"I just mean. . ." Kurt is still talking, and he tries to focus on the other boy's words. "Sometimes it seems like you try to buy my love with money. We only go to fancy places for dinner, and you send me to Broadway plays when you're not available. . ."

"I already bought the tickets," Blaine says, dully. He rips his eyes away from Kurt's because he just can't look at him right now. His lip is trembling, and he realizes with a little disgust that the reason his vision is so blurry is because there are tears welling up in his eyes. Is Kurt breaking up with him? Because he can't deal with that, he just _can't_. They've been together for almost two years, and in all that time Kurt has been the only constant. They're best friends.

"Blaine, I. . ." Kurt's voice breaks off suddenly, into a sharp little gasp. "Baby, are you crying?"

"No," Blaine says, and he has no doubt that he's pouting right now. "Don't be stupid."

But he's never been able to lie to Kurt – in all honesty, he's never really tried – and suddenly he's wrapped in the other boys' octopus arms, his back pressed to Kurt's chest. He can feel Kurt's warm breath on his ear.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not like my parents," Blaine says. "I can't believe you would ever say that."

"You're not, baby, you're not," Kurt says softly, and Blaine tries not to feel the thrill of excitement at the soft endearments. "I just mean. . .I miss spending time with you. Just hanging out, like now. Remember in high school, how we used to just lie on my bed and watch movies, or sit on the swings in the park, or just get coffee at the Lima Bean?"

Blaine feels the sudden need to explain, to make Kurt see that the whole reason they've been going on extravagant dates is because he's _not_ like his parents. "You always wanted to come to New York, and experience everything. You deserve everything, Kurt."  
>"Well, obviously, I am fabulous," Kurt says, a lilting tone to his voice. "But I don't <em>want<em> everything, Blaine. I just want you."

That's enough to make Blaine smile, and turn around to grab his boyfriend by the waist. "That was a painfully cheesy line."

"I have a painfully cheesy boyfriend," Kurt says promptly. They just lie back on the bed for a moment, peering into each other's eyes, before a thought occurs to Blaine. And he shouldn't mention it, he really, really shouldn't, but he can't resist.

"So. . .you just sat in the hallway for three hours waiting for me?"

Kurt instantly groans. "Don't remind me. Does anybody even vacuum out there? I swear these jeans will never be the same!"

Xxx

"Are you sure about this, Rach?" Blaine asks, a little uncertainly. He has to hold the phone away from his ear, her excited response too loud to handle.

"Absolutely!" she says. "There is nothing more romantic than a candlelit meal in the park. You did remember to pack candles, correct?"

"Yeah. . .but how am I going to keep them from falling over? I don't want to be a fire hazard."

"Just stick them in the ground, Blaine, really."

"Isn't it a little cold outside?"

"You'll have to cuddle! Trust me on this, I am the absolutely master of romantic dates, as evidenced by the fact that I have been in a loving relationship for four years."

"You and Finn spent most of that time broken up. . ."

"I think that I hear the doorbell! Don't keep Kurt waiting! Got to go!"

There's a dial tone in his ear. Blaine chuckles a little as he slides the phone into his back pocket. Kurt isn't there, of course. Still, it's probably just as well that he has a few minutes to gather himself. He puts an extra blanket and a sweatshirt on top of the cooler, and doublechecks the candles. He feels like he's missing something, but he can't figure out what it is.

There's a knock on the door, which is kind of strange. People can't get upstairs without Phil, or another doorman calling up or at least buzzing. So it must be someone in his apartment.

"Surprise!" Kurt practically dances into the room.

"Hey," Blaine says. "Phil let you in without buzzing me?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "I told him I was bringing you a surprise, and it was very romantic and I didn't want him to ruin it by telling you ahead of time."

Blaine's eyes light up. "Cool! What's the surprise!"

Kurt looks at him a little strangely. "There is no surprise. I just didn' want to have to stand awkwardly in the lobby while you answered the page."

"Oh," Blaine says. He tries not to be disappointed, but he _does_ really like surprises.

"So, where are we going on this 'broke date'?" Kurt asks, clapping his hands together excitedly. Blaine chuckles a little. Kurt is hopping up and down on the balls of his feet, and he's biting at his lower lip. IT's the typical expression he wears when he's terrifically excited, but doesn't want anyone to know. It's adorable.

"Now _that_ is a surprise," he says, grabbing his hand and pulling him behind him. "Come on."

It doesn't take long for Kurt to figure it out. They aren't far from the Morningside Heights Park, which Blaine has decided is an acceptable substitute for Central Park. Mostly, he's decided it because the picnic basket is kind of heavy, and the cooler is _really_ heavy. Kurt, used to making Finn carry his bags at the mall, just skips ahead.

That's when things start to go wrong.

When they reach the park, they lay out a blanket and sit down. Blaine pulls out the candles and discovers that it is _impossible_ to stick them in the ground, despite what Rachel says. ("They do this on the _Bachelor_ all the time" Kurt muses "Hollywood magic, I guess). It doesn't matter anyway, because the thing that Blaine had forgotten earlier? Yeah, matches, or a lighter.

"It's okay, Blaine," Kurt says encouragingly. "The stars are more romantic, anyway."

Then they go to take out the food. Which is warm, which is absolutely gross because there's mayo, and the dressing for the salad has separated.

"You know that you have to put ice into the cooler to keep things cold, right?" Kurt says. "It's okay, there's still the bread!"

So they sit there, in the dark, and munch on bread. It sucks. And then, as if things aren't already the absolute pits, the ducks attack.

It's just one, at first, a nice little mama duck that waddles over and sticks out its bill to pluck at the bread. Kurt thinks it's unhygienic, and Blaine thinks it's cute. But then it's followed by three more ducks, one of which angrily honks at Blaine whenever his hand moves even a little bit. Also, Blaine is pretty sure that the duck has teeth. What kind of a duck has teeth?

Kurt can't stop laughing as they are literally chased away from their picnic by a horde of ravenous, flesh-eating ducks. Blaine gasps. "I'm sorry," he says. "I _told_ you that I suck at romance."

And then it starts to rain. And not a cute, romantic, drizzly rain. No, this is an early November, cold, stinky New York rain that drops a sheet of water on them. Blaine briefly considers returning to the park to retrieve the cooler and picnic basket, but, well. . .man-eating ducks. So instead he just grabs Kurt's hand and they run back to Blaine's apartment. They practically fall into the lobby, shivery and blue-lipped. Tony, who has apparently replaced Phil, just raises one eyebrow as they stumble toward the elevator.

"Oh my God," Blaine gasps, shivering uncontrollably as he presses the button to take them to the seventh floor. He grabs at Kurt, trying to draw some body warmth from the other boy, but his body is just as cold. "That was horrible. That was so bad."

Kurt is still giggling. He reaches up, grabs Blaine's face, and presses a searing kiss to his lips. Blaine moves in closer, relishing the warmth. When he opens his eyes again, he shudders a little. There's a fierce, almost angry light in his boyfriend's eyes.

"That was _perfect_," Kurt says, before leaning forward and catching him in another kiss. "I love you _so damn much_."

They miss the seventh floor entirely, and somehow end up on the nineteenth. Then the second. It takes three tries to get to the right place.

.

**A/N: See, people? Communication. The key to good relationships. Also, man-eating ducks.**

**COMING SOON: Brittany struggles with spending so much time alone, and Santana goes through a seriously dark time. Who does she turn to when her life is at it's lowest? Hint: not who you'd expect. Oh, unless you've read my other stories. Then it's EXACTLY who you expect.**


	12. Subway: Santana

13:57

**A/N: Longest delay ever. . .I am sooooo sorry. I've been totally busy with school and work, and this story is getting to the part that's a little hard to write. Not an excuse. I'm sorry. Anyway, dark stuff goes down and NYC stops being twinkling lights. . .**

Thanksgiving blows.

It's supposed to be all about giving thanks and loving friends and family and shit. Instead, Santana is stuck in her crappy apartment, staring at the empty wall where they keep considering putting in a tv. The waterstains on the ceiling are even more obvious when Brittany's not around to distract, and the light that filters in through dirty windows is dull in comparison to the girls' smile.

But Britt's not here, because just like everybody else, she's headed back to Ohio for the holidays. Britt's gone, and most of her friends from Pace are gone, and she's just stuck entirely alone. So no, she doesn't have much to be thankful for at that moment.

She glances over at the two cards sitting beside her phone. One is from the douchey frat located just across the street from Pace. They're having an Orphan Thanksgiving party, and on the menu – beer. Of course. Probably Heineken, since they'll want to show off for any girls who might possibly consider sleeping with them. Directly next to it is a card, hand-made, from one Kurt Elizabeth Hummel. She'd been a little afraid to open it, initially – it was all fancy looking, with cardstock paper and a heavy cream envelope. Plus. . .glitter.

Britt, of course, had been beside herself, opening it and squealing. Not that it had said much: just Happy Thanksgiving, and how Kurt was thankful for their friendship and there, in little tiny, cramped handwriting at the bottom, a note saying that Blaine was also staying in New York.

So, Santana figures that she has two options: she can stay at home and mope all day, or she can go to a party with a bunch of idiot frat boys. One thing's for sure: heading over to see Hummel's fairy-hobbit boyfriend is totally off the table.

Fine. Whatever. She'll go to the party. After all, Santana Lopez is _not_ the type of girl who stays in and cries alone in her room.

She goes out every weekend, obviously. But usually she goes out with Britt, or with Marisol or one of the other girls. Or, as lame as it is, she's gone out with the hobbits and their big gay boyfriend.

The subway seems different when she's alone. It's not, obviously. It can't be. It's just a weird head game. Clearly, she needs to head out on her own more often, and not just walk to class or go shopping with Brittany.

The air is cold when Santana climbs up again out of the subway. It's brisk and smells like snow. She's heard that winter and snow is the best time to be in New York, but all that she can say is that she's seen more tourists in the past month than her entire life in Ohio. Then again. . .who would ever want to tour Ohio?

It's not hard to find the frat. It looks like just a regular mini-brownstone at first, nestled into a side street with the backdrop of the Hudson river. But then one notices the toilet pushed up against a window, and the curtains that are duct taped to the window and the pulsing beat that seems to be shaking the very ground outside. Santana just stops and stares at it.

Does she really want to go in? No, not really. She's not in the mood to be ogled by a bunch of horny straight guys, to be grabbed and groped and macked on. She doesn't feel like getting into a fight, which is what inevitably happens when a guy tries to flirt with her, and . . .

The other option is being alone. Which is equally abhorrent.

So she walks in the front door.

"Satan!"

She winces a little. She'd kind of been hoping that she wouldn't see anyone she knew, that she could stop in, get some free booze, and then take off, comfortable that her Thanksgiving hadn't been that of a complete loser. But now Rory's seen her.

"Hey, dipshit," she says with a sigh as his huge, meaty arm slings around her shoulder.

"Where're your girlfriends?" he asks.

"Britt went back to Ohio," she responds easily. "And you _know_ Felicidad and Marisol booked it at the beginning of the week."

"Bummer," Rory says. When she glances at him, she notices that he is more than a little drunk. "Hoped you'd broken up with 'em and that you'd be willing to blow me."

"In your dreams," Santana says, shoving his arm off and moving away. He just chuckles a little.

"Just last night, biatch," he says.

It's not hard to find the keg. Littered on a table beside it are a half dozen clean solo cups, and half empty jugs of vodka. Santana wrinkles her nose a little. It's like being back in Puck's basement, all cheap liquor and total lack of class. Correction: it's like being in Puck's basement pre-senior year, when Anderson had brought the expensive stuff that his dad kept locked up.

Still. It's free, and she's almost out of her loan money. She's a little scared, trying to think how she and Britt are going to make it to January, when the next payment comes in. She's got tuition covered, at least there's that. If they don't make the rent, though. . .

Speak of the devil. Her phone rings, and she leans against the wall as she pulls it out of her too-tight jeans.

**Happy Thnxgiving! You should have come home. Everyone misses you!**

Santana's pretty impressed that her girlfriend managed to spell most of that right. It's a definite first for Britt. And it isn't a lie. . .she has no doubt that her mom misses her – or misses the free babysitting, more accurately. She hasn't seen her dad in six years – just the regular childcare payments and the good health care plan convince her that he's actually still alive. She doubts anyone else even notices she's not there.

She pours a little coke into the rum and sips on it thoughtfully, trying not to wince too much as the cheap alcohol settles in her stomach. Frat boys lack anything remotely resembling taste.

Some time later she finds herself on the ratty old couch, sandwiched between a pair of fratboys who look about thirty years old. But they're warm, and Rory had announced that pizzas are on the way. She has no intention of heading back to her empty apartment with a growling stomach when there's trust fund pizza coming in.

"You should sing, Satan," Rory says enthusiastically. "I hear you've got moves."

"I do," Santana says. "But they don't come cheap."

"Hey," the guy to her right says, "You're drinking our booze and eating our pizza."

"Right," Santana says, still sneering. "Like I said. Cheap."

The boys scuffle good-naturedly until the doorbell rings. Then they're off like a shot, tumbling over one another like puppies. Santana can't help but smile. College life has been awesome, but she's kind of forgotten how nice it can feel to hang out with guys. And not fairies like Hummel and Anderson, but real guys like. . .

Like the guys she'd dated in high school. Like Puck and Finn and Sam. . .

Fuck. Her eyes are welling up and she has to furiously brush them back. That's over, right? She doesn't like guys anyway. . .she's a lesbian, she's accepted that about herself.

But then why is there this ache in her heart as she watches these dirty, muscley, disgusting oafs shove each other aside just to get to a piece of greasy pizza?

She doesn't have the time to keep wondering, however, as her phone rings. She answers it without even looking at the caller id.

"Where are you?"

She recognizes the bitchy, self-important tone instantly and rolls her eyes.

"Hello to you, too, Ladylips."

"Santana, I do not have the patience to trade witty barbs with you," Kurt says. Santana can hear other voices in the background – Finn, asking who he's talking to, and Rachel speechifying on something irritating, and Finn's stepdad saying to put the phone down and come to dinner.

"Then why are you calling and not enjoying your fancy family lovefest?"

"Why aren't you at Blaine's right now?" Santana freezes for a moment, as that was _not_ the question she was expecting.

"I'ze gots better things to do with my time than hang out with your shortstack boyfriend," she says. "I'm at a party, Hummel. I know that's a foreign idea to you, but some of us gots cred."

"I don't even know how to respond to that. . ." Kurt sighs. "Look, I know that you're lonely, and you wish that Britt invited you to go home with her, but. . .you and Blaine are friends. You should be together at the holidays."

"Why didn't Blaine McEyebrows go home with you, anyway?"

Santana's pretty bright, so she can read a whole lot into the silence that follows. A silence that practically screams Kurt wanting Blaine to come, and Blaine refusing. Her lips quirk a little bit. It's nice to know that there's trouble in fairy paradise.

"Just. . .go spend Thanksgiving with him," Kurt says finally. "I don't want to think of either of you all alone."

"oh, I'm not alone," Santana promises, before promptly hanging up the phone. She moves over to the table of pizza, and shoves one of the fratboys aside before picking up her own piece. It has pepperoni, which is _awesome_. She never gets to eat pepperoni anymore, because Britt's convinced that it's giant nipples.

So really, it's not a bad Thanksgiving. The guys all adore her – probably because she's one of five girls at the party and she's far and away the hottest. She stays until about midnight, and then totters out, half-drunk and laughing, refusing all of the invitations to share a bed for the night. She feels wanted in a way that she never does with girls – girls who care about feelings, and who she is as a person, and who very, very rarely are all about the lust and the moment.

Sometimes, granted. But never like that. And Britt. . .Britt always cares about the feelings.

It's fucking _freezing_ outside, and Santana realizes that she's left her jacket back at the frat house. Still, she's almost at the subway, and she does not feel like going back. It's only a five minute ride back to her apartment. She can handle it. So she totters her way down to the subway, tripping twice and finally just giving up and taking off her heels.

It's disgusting. The whole stop smells like piss and there are rats scurrying around. Plus it's _hot_. Outside is cold, but the bowels of the subway are thick with sweat and stench. She doesn't know how it's possible to be a sauna down here and Alaska up there, but it is.

She's almost alone at the stop. There are a pair of drunk looking women across the way, waiting for a downtown or Brooklyn train, and an elderly looking tourist group by her. There's a tattered looking man, half-drunk and half-asleep, lying down on the one bench. Santana shrugs and just leans against the wall. She closes her eyes, just for a minute.

There's a whirring rush from the tunnel, and she peeks through one eye to see that it's the downtown train. More people have filted down by now. . .a Dominican couple, hanging all over one another and practically fucking in public, and a stocky looking dude who's standing a little too close.

"Where are you headed, beautiful?" he asks, and his mouth is close enough that Santana can smell the cigarettes on his breath.

"Personal bubble, dickwad," she drawls. He just moves in closer, forcing her to scoot further down the wall.

"You wanna take me home?" the guy asks. "You're fucking gorgeous."

Santana decides not to bother answer him. He's gross and disgusting, and not at all playful like the guys at the frathouse. She glances around to make sure that she's not alone, and is comforted to see that there are almost twenty people gathered now, waiting for trains. Still. That's the way New York is – you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone.

She creeps a little further down the wall.

The guy doesn't follow her this time – thank _God_ – but he just stands there, undressing her with his eyes and muttering under his breath. She only catches phrases – words and strung-out quarter-sentences – but it's enough that she wants nothing to do with the freak, and lets out an actual breath of relief when the train finally thunders up.

She climbs on, and realizes with her heart falling that the car is absolutely empty. The Dominican couple climb on with her, but that's it. The freakin' rapist-imitator joins them. Santana doesn't sit down, even though all of the seats are open. She just reaches into her pants and grabs at her keys. The cool metal in her palm calms her down, and she breathes through her nose.

She suddenly feels really, really sober.

The Dominicans get off at the next stop.

Santana considers getting off with them. She should – the guy is giving her the serious creeps, and she doesn't want to deal with this, and even though she _feels_ sober, she knows she isn't. At the same time, she grew up in Lima Heights Adjacent, where serious _cosas malas occurren cada dia_ and she can deal with anything thrown up against her. Besides, her stop is just two away, and the guy hasn't creeped on her since getting in.

Until the doors shut behind the Dominicans.

He's on her in a second, then, arms wrapped around her and pressing her tight into the metal pole. She tries to lurch back, but only succeeds on hitting her head hard on the metal. The train jerks beneath her feet, putting her more off-balanced, as the guys cigarette-alcohol fueled breath comes closer.

And then his lips are on hers, wet and messy and sloppy. It's gross, it's so, so gross, and her eyes are wide open the whole time. She sees the nasty rash of zits on his forehead, the messy eyebrows, the puckered edges of her ear. She tries to pull back, but he just lifts one hand to her chin and holds her steady. And then his tongue pushes its way in, and she's gagging on it, she can't even move to bite because he's holding her so close. . .

His body pushes in tighter, too, insistent, bulging erection pressing against her stomach. Santana starts to gag as she realizes this is it, all the stories she's heard about why young women shouldn't travel alone at night, the stories about how the subway isn't safe. . .it's all happening to her. The guy's going to rape her and kill her and nobody's ever going to find her body.

He pulls back for a second to gulp in some air before lunging in, mouthing at her jaw and earlobe. Santana forces bile back down her throat. She tries to jerk away again, but he just tightens his grip on her hands and her head, and presses his body in more insistently. He hasn't done anything to her legs, though, and if she can maybe bring her knee up. . .

But she'll have to wait for the perfect chance, not while the train is hurtling through an underground cavern and there's no way to escape this guy.

He lets go of her chin.

She glances up at the feedreader: 12:12. Why aren't they at the next stop yet? His hand snakes down to her jeans, undoes the top button and slides in beneath her panties. Santana can't help it, she shudders and begins to cry, big wracking sobs. He ignores her, his fingers gently questing along her tender skin, mouth still sucking at her jaw, her ear, and then back to plunder her mouth.

The train slows down.

Santana jerks up with her knee, getting him in the groin. He gasps, and lets go of her, just for a second. She throws her entire body against him, enough to knock him off balance if not to the ground. She'd originally planned to run out the door to flee to her apartment, but he's already standing up again and she knows she won't make it, he'll just catch her and drag her into an alley.

It's New York City. Even if there are people in the streets, they won't notice and they won't _care_.

So she darts to the side, instead, running through the doors between cars, ignoring the signs saying not to do so. She runs through one, two, three, trying to get to one that's crowded, one that has a dozen people in it, a hundred, a thousand. She doesn't hear footsteps behind her, but that doesn't mean he isn't there. She can still fell his grimy hands on her body, still taste his wet, meaty tongue in her month. Her pants are still undone, and she knows that her makeup is running in black teartrails down her face. Nobody stops her as she runs.

She finally stops, chest heaving, in a traincar with about twenty people in it. A few of them look at her strangely, and one girl dressed in a matronly wrap dress (must be a fucking _teacher_) looks like she wants to say something, but in the end she doesn't.

The train finally arrives at her stop, but Santana doesn't get out. She can't. Because what if he knows where she lives, somehow, what if he's waiting for her? She can't deal with that she can't. . .she can't go back to her apartment alone, but she doesn't know where else to go. She likes the girls from the sorority, but not enough to know where they are right now, not enough to go to them crying and heaving and feeling like she's going to pass out or vomit. Britt's gone and Hummel and. . .and she has no one. Yet again, she's completely, and totally alone.

Xxx

She knows that it's a bad idea when she walks in the front door and there's a doorman. She _knows_ Phil, of course, she's been here enough, but she'd forgotten that she'd have to face him. She wishes that she'd fixed her hair or washed her face, first. Still, she'll have to make do, because she is _not_ walking back to the subway. Besides, she's not ashamed. She's Santana fucking Lopez, and the fact that her knees are still trembling and she can still _fucking feel him_ aren't enough to make her back down.

"Hello," Phil says, deadpan and nonjudgmental. She supposes that as a doorman he's seen his share of fucked up shit.

"I'm here to visit Blaine Anderson," she says. Why doesn't he react? Why doesn't he do anything? Stupid Phil just reaches over to the control panel of buttons beside him and presses one. Nothing happens.

"Is he expecting you?" he says finally, mildly.

"Yes," Santana snots out, and then wilts a little under his steady gaze. "I mean, no. Probably not. But I really need to see him. _Please_."

He won't let her up. Of course he won't. If Blaine isn't answering the obnoxiously loud buzzing that must be ricocheting through his bedroom right now, he sure as hell won't answer her knocking on the door. But, just as Santana is ready to give up, to walk outside and sleep on the sidewalk if necessary (except then he could find her, and she'd be asleep, and no no no) there's a little bit of feedback.

"'lo?"

The voice is husky and low-pitched, dizzy with sleep, but Santana still recognizes it. Phil leans his head toward the microphone

"Ms. Santana Lopez here for you."

There's a pause . . .a long pause. Santana _knows_ that she hasn't been the best friend since coming to New York – she's avoided meeting up with her high school friends in favor of work for Pace, the sorority, and Britt. But he wouldn't just ignore her, would he? Not Blaine. Not fucking dapper, perfect, charming Blaine. . .

Sure enough, after almost a full moment the speaker crackles back "send her up"

Santana doesn't even wait for the go-ahead. She just runs to the elevator, practically throwing herself inside and punching at the up button. She wraps her arms around herself as the elevator shoots up, trying to rub some warmth back into her body. She just feels cold and empty.

When it stops and dings open she walks forward. She notices, for the first time, that she's not wearing her shoes. She must have left them in the subway car with. . .she shudders, and moves to stand in front of Blaine's door.

And then she's done. She has no more energy to lift her hand to knock. She can't call out, she can't use the knocker she just. . .can't. She's spent, and empty, and the pride and anger and resilience that's been powering her through is just gone. She's standing outside her half-friend's boyfriend's door and she just can't. He won't care. . .why would he? Why would anyone, except for maybe Britt.

She doesn't know how long she's stood there when the door finally opens, revealing an incredibly disheveled young man. Hair in wild, corkscrew curls, blinking haphazardly in the light, a pair of pajamas hanging dangerously low off his hips and a t-shirt on not only inside out but also backwards, he looks nothing like the put-together boy that Santana's used to.

"Santana? What's going—"

He doesn't even have a chance to finish the sentence before she's launching herself into his arms. She flinches, at first, when his hands clutch reflexively at her shoulderblades, almost winces when her chest collides with hers. But then his right hand moves to gently pat her hair, and the other just holds her close and he murmurs "Shhhhhhh." His breath, beside her ear, smells like toothpaste and he smells like soap.

"He tried to – he would have –" she can't seem to find any of the words that she needs, but it doesn't matter. Blaine just shuts the door behind her, and leads her carefully to the couch. He sets her down before joining her a moment later, arms reaching out automatically to pull her into his side, to continue stroking her hair and arm comfortably.

"It's okay," he croons. "You're safe now. You're safe."

Santana can't stop crying, and she clutches at his solid warmth like it's the only thing keeping her afloat. Maybe it is. All that she knows is that, for the first moment all night, she feels loved and protected. She hates Kurt, a little, for having this all the time, and tries to imagine if it were Britt here instead. . .

Except that Britt would be thin and bony, and not nearly so warm. She wouldn't be able to enfold Santana into this cocoon of safety. Her voice would be higher and confused, not low and sure. She grabs at Blaine's arm, and it's thick and hairy. It should disgust her after tonight, but instead it just feels. . .nice. Like home.

"Don't let go of me," she pleads. "I promise I'm not being a bitch."

"I know."

"I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Just for now. . .don't let go of me."

A long pause, followed finally by a whispered. "Okay. Okay. You're going to be okay."

**A/N: I know. You were all eagerly awaiting some Blaintana from me. It's everyone's favorite ship, don't even try to deny it. Also: everyone noticed that little Blaintana moments in the premiere? It's happening, people, it's happening! Haha, just kidding, Klaine forever.**

**COMING SOON: Kurt stresses about finals and the secret that he KNOWS Blaine is keeping, but a Girls' Night Out and an early Christmas present from his boyfriend might be enough to make up for it. **


	13. ESB: Kurt

13:57

**A/N: So after last chapter's downer, I decided to give you something a little happier. Sort of. Also, had to post this prior to tonight's episode, which is going to permanently change my story from a future!fic to an AU. Curse you, Ryan Murphy, curse you. Anyway, thanks as always for the reviews, and enjoy!**

Returning to New York is not nearly the uplifting experience that it had been in September. Kurt had really enjoyed being home, enjoyed being back in _Lima_ of all things. He'd been happy living with his Dad and Carole and Finn again, spent time with Mercedes, Quinn, Tina and the other girls from New Directions. He'd completed his moisturizing routine without Tim looking askance at him, and he'd een the most fabulously dressed person in town.

But now he's back in New York. Where people dress better than him, and he doesn't have best friends, and, worst of all, where finals are starting up.

Finals, Kurt has decided, are the absolute worst thing in the world.

Everyone on campus is on edge, and the collegial, comfortable atmosphere has suddenly become tense and competitive, with students hovering over their notes and hoarding their outlines. On the upside, instead of the dorm smelling like pot and booze, it now smells like coffee.

Finals fever has hit everyone it seems, even people who have never put their full focus on academics. Tim, for instance, has been a constant fixture at his desk for the past week. A month ago, Kurt would have said that this was the best thing ever – certainly better than Tim crawling into bed with him, half-drunk and muttering about boobs. Instead, he finds the clacking of Tim's computer far more distracting. Also, the Queen. So. Much. Queen.

"Go to the library," Blaine suggests when he calls his boyfriend to complain. "I go to the Columbia law library when I need peace and quiet. Those people are crazy serious."

"I can't go to the _law library_," Kurt insists. "They'll look at me like I don't belong."

"Kurt, you're from Ohio. I'm pretty sure that you've gotten worse looks at Target."

Kurt almost starts on a tirade about how he would never, _ever_ be caught dead in a Target, but he restrains himself just in time. His boyfriend sounds ridiculously tired, and Kurt feels a little guilty for a moment. While he's just dealing with freshman English and survey courses, Blaine, with all his AP classes, is in a few more advanced courses. Also: Calc 2. Kurt's pretty sure that math is the bane of his existence, and he's pretty sure that Blaine doesn't like it any better, even if he is good at it.

"What are you doing Friday?" he asks instead. Friday has always been near-sacred to Kurt. In Ohio it had meant family dinner night – in New York it's become the default date night for him and Blaine. "I happen to know of a _very_ attractive man who'd like to see you."

"I can't, Kurt," Blaine says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. "My orgo exam is Friday, and then Monday I have Calc. I won't be very good company."

"You're always good company," Kurt says, and winces a little at the needy tone in his voice. Blaine lets out a long sigh.

"Monday night," he says finally. "I'll be done with all of my exams – just the essay to write. We'll go out Monday."

Kurt sighs and looks at his calendar. It's only Tuesday. What's the point in having an incredibly sexy, beautiful boyfriend if he can't even see him? "Fine," He humphs finally. "I suppose that I should probably study, too. By the way, did Santana ever come by on Thanksgiving?"

There's a slight pause on the other end of the line – Kurt smiles indulgently, realizing that his easily distracted boyfriend must have spotted something shiny. "Um. . .no, no she didn't," he says finally. Kurt sighs. He'd really thought that they'd become closer with Santana over the year, between the occasional gay pride events and the double dates.

"Pity," he says. "All right. Well, I'll let you go. I love you,"

"You, too," Blaine says, and then hangs up.

Kurt remembers, a little longingly, the early days of their relationship when they'd teasingly played the whole "no, _you_ hang up" game. Ah, those were the days.

The minute he hangs up the phone, there's a knock at the door. Before Kurt even has thte chance to open it, it's flung open and Tim's familiar blond head peeks in.

"Hey, Kurt, you off the phone?" he asks Kurt doesn't even have the chance to answer before he's flung himself at his computer and begun typing again. Kurt just rolls his eyes, grabs his book, and heads out the door.

He just can't bring himself to study. He's pretty sure that he knows this material – it's nothing very difficult, most of the classes are just basic overviews. He's been going to class, he's been taking notes, and he has certainly not been drinking or partying like most of the other freshmen. What he needs, he thinks, is a Girls' Night. He realizes with a pang of guilt that he's been pretty much ignoring Rachel ever since her performance. It's just. . .things got so busy after that and there had been so much to do, and. . .

No. There's really no excuse, he knows that. So he pulls out his phone and rings up his best friend.

Xxx

Max Brenner's is practically made for Girls' Nights Out. Especially when said girls are underage, and the fabulous scenes from Sex and the City are currently unattainable. Still, as things are, the chocolate fondue in the middle of the table does just fine.

"Kurt, this was a marvelous idea," Rachel glows, sticking another strawberry in the chocolate. Kurt winces a little – it is, after all, horrible for one's complexion. Nonetheless, he's a bit tempted to indulge in it more himself. Brittany, meanwhile, is just sticking her spoon in and licking the chocolate straight off. Sanitary? No. Adorable? Kind of.

"I missed you guys," Brittany says. "Except for when we had Thanksgiving together. That was fun."

"Where's Santana?" Kurt asks. "I'm sure that I invited her."

"She's sick," Brittany says. "She's been sick since Thanksgiving. She doesn't want to go out anymore. Just to go to college, and sometimes to Blaine's to get medicine."

"You mean Duane's?" Rachel asks, assuming, no doubt, that their friend is referring to the pharmacy. Brittany considers for a moment.

"I don't think so," she says, before turning to face Kurt. "Unless you have a new boyfriend?"

"Wait, wait, wait," Rachel sets down her fork, and leans forward. Kurt groans. He recognizes that look in her eyes – the set of determination and focus. Rachel Berry has clearly decided that she's found a mystery and is determined to figure it out. "Why would Santana be hanging out with Blaine?"

"I'm sure that Brittany's just confused," Kurt says. "I just talked to him today, and he said that she didn't even come over for Thanksgiving."

"Hmm. . ." Rachel twirls her fork around consideringly. "It does. . .it does make a certain kind of sense, doesn't it."

Kurt is not going to take the bait. He absolutely is not. He _knows_ Rachel is just trying to create some drama, and he is absolutely not going to fall for it.

"There are one hundred cents to a dollar," Brittany informs them, and breaks into a broad grin. "Totally gonna get promoted to cashier, yay!"

Kurt bites.

"What makes sense, Rachel?"

"Well, Santana and Blaine _did_ both struggle with their sexuality in high school," she says slowly. "And I can understand the appeal. I mean, Blaine was perhaps the most attentive boyfriend I've ever had. . .

Kurt lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Blaine was never your boyfriend," he says.

"They say that college is a time for experimentation and finding yourself," Rachel points out. "Maybe, while we were all gone over the break, they. . .experimented and found themselves."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "After everything Santana went through to come out senior year, she would not risk that," he points out. "And Blaine is definitely gay. Trust me."

"That means they could totally be getting their mack on," Brittany says. "It wouldn't be cheating, because the plumbing is different."

"Blaine is _not_ cheating on me with Santana," Kurt says decisively. He ignores Britt's whisper of "plumbing." "Now, let's discuss something else."

"Well, I'm just saying," Rachel continues, clearly unwilling to drop the subject. "I mean, we know that Santana's had sex with guys, _and_ with girls."

"She says ladykisses are sweeter," Brittany chimes in.

"And Blaine. . .well, Blaine thought he might be straight until he kissed me. Maybe he's uncertain again. I mean, have you and Blaine. . .you know. . ."

"No, Rachel, I don't know," Kurt groans.

"She wants to know if you fucked him in the ass," Brittany says. Kurt's eyes fly open. Oh my Gaga. This is not happening right now. This is not. . .he glances around to the other patrons of the restaurant, none of whom seem to be paying any attention to him.

"I. . .what. . .no!" his face is red. He can tell. Bright red. Ridiculous. He leans forward and hisses, "we are _not_ discussing this."

"I guess he could have fucked you in the ass, too, right Rachel?"

"Yes, that's true," Rachel muses. "I suppose it's irrelevant who is actually topping in this scenario. . ."

Kurt buries his head in his hands. "Why is this happening? Why are we talking about this?"

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your sexuality," Rachel says primly. "You should own it."

"Oh, you're one to talk. You still won't even let Finn take your shirt off."

"That is because I have values and moral obligations," Rachel says primly. "I insist on remaining chaste until my wedding night. You have no such religious values."

"It's fun," Brittany says encouragingly. "I mean, I don't have a penis to stick in anything, but I think it's fun. Puck always said it was fun."

Kurt throws up a little in his mouth.

"Can we talk about something else?" he says weakly. There's a long pause, and he's a little terrified that Rachel and Brittany are going to continue in the same vein.

"All right," Rachel says. "Let's discuss the possible options of gifts that I can get Finn for Christmas. As I do not practice Christianity, I am not always certain of the appropriateness of gifts given to celebrate a baby's birthday and. . ."

Kurt just lets her prattle on. When Brittany offers him her spoon, filled with chocolate, he morosely lifts it to his lips.

He misses the Girls Night's they'd have in high school. . .sitting around in pajamas and talking about vague, unformed ideas of romance and love. Not. . .not sex and cheating and – oh, all right, they'd talked about that a lot, too.

He pulls out his phone, and shoots a quick text to Mercedes. It only takes a second before his phone buzzes back at him.

**Oh, boo, of course Blaine's not cheating on you. He loves you!**

A moment later, and the phone buzzes again.

**But if he is cheating, I'll cut him!**

Kurt laughs a little and shoots a text back. Sometimes it's nice to talk to someone who has _only_ his best interests at heart – no desire to find drama where none exists or to talk about. . .about plumbing.

When he finally pays attention to the conversation, Brittany is explaining the positive sides of plush unicorns, and Rachel looks like she is seriously considering it. This is a problem. After all, Finn is Kurt's brother, and he's the one who will have to listen to the football player trying to figure out what Rachel's latest, passive aggressive gift really means.

Xxx

Monday finally arrives. Kurt knows that Blaine isn't expecting to do anything until the night. Which means he needs to begin getting ready around noon.

He ignores Tim's grousing, and spends 1.5 hours on his hair, 45 minutes on his moisturizing, and tries on outfits for about half an hour (25 different combinations in all). Even so, that means he's ready several hours early, so he settles onto his bed to read some Shakespeare.

His phone buzzes at exactly 6 pm – a little later than usual, but after a full day of exams, Kurt will accept it.

**Meet me on 5****th**** Avenue, between 33 and 34****th**** street**.

Kurt's breath catches in his chest. They've _talked_ about this – talked about how their dates don't need to be extravagant and expensive and over the top. Still. . .he _knows_ what is at that address. He throws on his peacoat and the green scarf that Blaine gave him for his birthday and runs out the door.

"Someone's getting laid tonight," he hears Tim mutter, just before the door slams shut.

Kurt's feeling filled with energy now – it's been over a week since he's seen his boyfriend, and even then it had just been for a brief moment, a pick-up at the airport and then a taxi ride back to campus. It's cold outside, and something glitters above. Kurt assumes it's just the stars, until he sees silver dusting around a lightpost and realizes that it's snow. He picks up his pace, and almost considers walking. At the last minute he realizes how horrible he'll look if he walks the whole way – his nose will be bright red, and his eyelashes will freeze with tears. So he hails down a taxi.

He feels a little disappointed when he climbs out at Fifth Avenue. He glances back and forth, but doesn't see Blaine anywhere. Is he early? Late? He wraps his arms around himself, hopping up and down a little to keep warm. He waits for about two minutes before he sees – well, that really doesn't make sense.

"Rachel?" he asks incredulously, walking up to the other girl. He's mostly confused, and a little pissed. Blaine had better not be blowing him off again. While the trick had worked with _Wicked_, since he and Rachel had always shared such a love, it simply will not suffice for a romantic rendezvous on top of the Empire State Building.

"Oh, Kurt, hi!" she says, hopping up a little on her toes. "Blaine left a ticket here for you. I'm going up with you. I think the observation desk would be a perfect place for Finn to propose to me in three years, and this seems like the perfect time to scope it out. Well, why are you just standing there? Let's get in line."

Kurt is still a little confused, but he follows her. After a minute he clears his throat. "Is. . .um. . .is Blaine here?"

"Hmm?" Rachel asks, turning around. "Oh, of course he is. He said that he just had to grab something inside. He'll meet you up there."

"Oh," Kurt says, smiling a little. The warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach is back again. "Okay," he says. He grabs Rachel's arm, and links elbows with her. "All right, let's go scope out your potential proposal."

"Great," she says. "I mean, you'll be the best man at our wedding, of course, so it's really going to be up to you to ensure that Finn doesn't mess up the proposal." She pauses for a moment, her gaze going out to some unknowable place. "As long as he gets down on one knee, though, I don't think he can screw it up." She sighs, and cuddles in closer. Kurt just rolls her eyes. Rachel had spent almost the entire Thanksgiving break at his house, curled up with Finn in front of football, or cooking with Carole in the kitchen. She's clearly still basking in the afterglow of love.

Not that he can blame her, exactly. She's been separated from Finn for three months, with just the brief visit for her opening night. He's going crazy have been separated from Blaine for a mere week.

It's funny, really, the way that his stomach starts fluttering when they finally make their way to the front of the line and head up the elevator. He glances at his watch. They've been waiting for almost an hour. . .what if Blaine got impatient? He's never been very good at just waiting in one place. .

Oh, Gaga, what if this is like _Sleepless in Seattle_, and Blaine will leave just as he arrives? Only, Blaine doesn't have a child who will conveniently forget his backpack, so he won't return, and they won't see each other standing there, and. . .

The elevator door opens. He hears Rachel gasp behind him, "oh, this is _perfect_," but he ignores her, walking forward and looking around for hazel eyes and a broad smile.

The observation deck is crowded. It's probably near empty by normal standards, too early for the saxophonist who draws in the romantic crowds, and too cold for regular tourists. Still, there's such a press of people that Kurt doesn't see him at first. It's exactly like a romantic comedy, only without the certainty that the lovebirds will see one another.

Except then the crowd parts, and there he is. Blaine is dressed impeccably – or at least, Kurt assumes he is, under the wool peacoat and the Dalton-colored scarf. He sees the perfect jeans, at least, and Blaine isn't wearing his traditional winter beanie, so really, it's about the best that he can hope for. He walks forward, trying to keep the lovestruck smile off his face. He fails.

As he draws closer, however, Blaine does something unexpected. He drops to one knee.

Kurt's heart jumps into his throat.

Oh, God. This isn't. . .Blaine's not. . .he honestly doesn't know what he'll do, what he'll say. His hand flutters around his throat. He loves Blaine, _loves_ him, but he's not sure that they're ready. . .they're so young, and they've never even had proper sex and. . .and . .

And Blaine is just _staring_ at him, hazel eyes sparkling from beneath long lashes. Kurt can feel the people around him still, looking at the scene. He's sure some of them will look judgmental – maybe because they're two guys, but maybe just because they are _too young_.

"Blaine, I. . ."

"Shh," Blaine says. He pulls a small, black box out of his pocket. Kurt's heart is thrumming painfully in his chest. He wonders if this is how his Dad felt right before the heart attack. He wonders why he's thinking of his father at a moment like this.

"Kurt. . .you make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream. And. . .I kind of want to be more than friends. When the power lines went down, I went to somewhere only we know."

Seriously? Kurt can feel his eyebrow going up. He's always known that Blaine is cheesy, but this is kind of painful. His heart slows down a little.

"It's not unusual to be loved by anyone, and we've got the beat. But mostly. . ." Blaine's grin is ridiculously huge right now, his gaze is playful, and people are beginning to chuckle around them. Kurt's feeling calmer, staring at his boyfriend. He trusts Blaine.

"Mostly, baby, it's cold outside." He pops the box open. Inside is a single, copper key. Kurt lets out a short, choked laugh. Blaine stands up, finally, and walks over, pressing the box into his hand.

"I'm not asking you to move in," Blaine says, nervously. "Just. . .I want you to know that you're always welcome. And. . .and I want you to feel like my place is your home, too. Because. . ."

His words cut off. Kurt looks up at him curiously. Blaine is just staring at him, a soft, wondering look in his eyes. Kurt pulls the key out, and clutches it tightly in his hand.

"Because what, Blaine?"

"Because my place only feels like home when you're there."

It should be ridiculously cliché, as the snow falls down around them, and there's a black box in Kurt's left hand. The words should be contrived and false, and the world should not _really_ seem to fade out around them. He leans forward and cups Blaine's face in his hand, leaning in so that their foreheads are pressed against one another.

"Gosh, your lips look delicious," he hums softly, before leaning in for a soft, chaste kiss. Their lips are both cold in the winter air. He pulls back, and Blaine chuckles a little.

"So it's okay?" he asks, and Kurt loves how he can still make his boyfriend's tremble that little bit. He reaches out and clutches the other boy's hand, intertwining their hands in that perfect, intimate way.

"I told you once that I'd never say good-bye to you," Kurt says, playfully waving the key in the air. "Now I guess I won't ever have to."

**A/N: Psh. Santana cheating on Brittany with Blaine? Blaine cheating on Kurt with Santana? Impossible. OR IS IT? **

**COMING SOON: Finn has always loved Christmas, but he's a little nervous about this break. He doubts his mom will deal well with his decision to drop out of college, and Rachel definitely won't. Meanwhile, Kurt stresses over grades, Blaine stresses over parents, and Brittany misses Santana.**


	14. Lima: Finn

13:57

**A/N: May I just point out, by the way: totally called the whole Kurt / Blaine competitive issue (in which Blaine wins because. . .um. . .he's super hot, and Kurt, while awesome, needs to either learn some versatility or become a character actor). A bit nervous for episode 5, and stoked for episode 3 (more Mike Chang? Yes, please!)**

Christmas is totally the best time of the year. Thanksgiving is pretty cool, with all the food, but Christmas is the exact same thing, only with presents, too. _And_ it means that Rachel will be back for three whole weeks, and she'll probably even let him get some sideboob action in.

Kurt's back, too, which is kind of cool. Finn's been coming home about every other week since school started, partly because he missed his mom (and her cooking) and partly because he kept running out of clean clothes and he couldn't figure out how to make the washing machines work.

On the other hand. . . he's home for almost a month. His mom is going to want to talk to him about school, about his decisions now that the football scholarship is out of the question, about his major, about. . .about his future. Finn's not entirely certain that he's ready to have that discussion. He thinks that he knows what he's going to do, but. . .he kind of wants to talk it out with someone before telling his Mom. Or telling Rachel, for that matter, because she might freak out even more than his mom. He could talk to Burt. Yeah, that's a great idea. Burt's cool, he'll just grunt and then hand over a beer.

Except. . .Finn frowns. Except that at night he'll mention it to his mom, casually, and then she'll come barging in to Finn's room, and he'll probably have his hand under Rachel's shirt, and it will be Babygate all over again except with a baby.

So Burt's out of the question. And Kurt's out of the question, because ever since senior year, he and Rachel have been glued to one another's side. Finn would be kind of jealous, except. . .yeah, Kurt's gay. Like, really, really gay.

So Finn is sitting there in the kitchen, staring morosely at his grilled cheese sandwich (he doesn't want to tell his mom, but he's pretty sure that the grilled cheese tastes better when made with the girl next door's iron) when the door opens.

"Hey, kiddo," Burt says, walking in, and only raising an eyebrow when he sees his stepson staring at a sandwich. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Eating a sandwich," Finn sighs. "How's work?"

"Slow," Burt grumps, heading to the fridge and pulling out some weird health smoothie Kurt's recently bought. "Having you boys home is nice," he mutters, staring dubiously at the drink, "but I'm gonna miss real food for the next few weeks."

"Yeah," Finn sighs. "Me, too."

Burt pats him consolingly on the shoulder before shuffling off to the other room. Finn just sighs and takes a huge bite of his sandwich.

He is filled with ennuey.

"Finn, _what_ are you eating?"

"Gri'ed chee' samich," Finn mutters, his mouth filled with gooey, delicious cheese. Kurt wrinkles his nose.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he says. "I know that Carole taught you better."

Finn's mouth drops open and Kurt makes another disgusted noise, throwing his hands up in the air. "You a'ked me a queshtion," Finn mutters. He wiggles his tongue around in his mouth, trying to pull some of the cheese out of his molars.

"Whatever," Kurt grouses. "Listen, Blaine's supposed to come over within the hour, but I have to run to Rachel's. I just spoke with her about what she's wearing on your reunion date and. . .well, it's simply unacceptable. Just tell Blaine that I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Kay," Finn says. This time he remembers to answer before stuffing the rest of the sandwich in his mouth. Sweet. Totally ate that thing in two bites. He's gonna have to tell Puck – they've been having a competition all semester to find out who can stuff the most food in his mouth.

Puck wins at meatballs and marshmallows, but Finn's got him totally beat at mac n' cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

"Absolutely disgusting," Kurt mutters, grabbing his jacket and a scarf. "Honestly, I don't see what Rachel sees in you."

Finn smiles (disleggingly, he thinks). "Probably the same thing you did," he teases. Kurt freezes for a moment, his face going pale.

"We agreed that is the time never to be spoken of," he says, voice deadly serious, before pirouetting and prancing out the front door. Finn chuckles and heads to the sink to wash his dishes. Kurt's fun to have around, when he's freaking out about things.

He heads into the living room, and turns on ESPN. They're talking about the Rose Bowl, of course, and National Championships. . .Finn's heart seizes, a little. OSU is going ot the Rose Bowl. He's supposed to join the team the day after Christmas, to fly down to California with them, but. . .is it really worth it? The doctor's have said it's hopeless. He can play again, but he'll never be really good. He won't ever be able to pivot in that same way, won't be able to duck under passes and dodge around blitzes.

And he's scared. It had hurt – hurt so much, that injury, and the physical therapy isn't much fun, either. He's not sure he'll ever be able to face 300 pound linebackers again without a jolt of fear going straight up his spine, and. . .

So yeah. He's not really a part of the Buckeyes, anymore. He wants to support the guys, sure, but it hurts so, so much that he won't be part of the team anymore. Another thing that he can't tell anyone about, because Kurt won't understand, and Mom and Rachel will just make weird clucking noises, and Burt will grunt uncomfortably. . .

Finn kind of really misses Quinn right now. Sure, she'd been a bitch both times that they'd dated, ore focused on herself than her boyfriend, but she'd listened, and usually knew the right thing to say. Or at least. . .knew how to say things that helped and got him going somewhere. But he knows that Rachel will freak out if he calls Quinn, and besides, her school doesn't get out for another few days. She's probably worried about exams and whatever.

He's so caught up in his head (and in the ESPN predictions – they're expecting Michigan to win the National Championship, which is just a joke – that he doesn't notice the doorbell ringing. He does, however, notice when the door is pushed open.

"Hello? Kurt?"

Oh, it's just Blaine. Finn stops searching for a baseball bat and heads over to greet his brother's boyfriend.

"Hey, Blaine. He went to help Rachel with fashion."

"Figures," Blaine says. "Do you know when he'll be back? I can just return in an hour or so."

"Don't worry," Finn says. "I just have ESPN on."

"Cool."  
>The two boys head to the living room. The minute they sit down, though, Finn gets an idea. A good idea. No, a <em>great<em> idea, like the greatest idea that he's ever had.

After all, Blaine is gay, so he understands girls, but he's also a dude, so he understands dudes. He doesn't talk to Finn's mom, like, _ever_ and he won't tattle to Rachel and. . .

"I think that I'm dropping out of school."

Blaine looks kind of terrified, and Finn has a moment to think that maybe his brilliant idea isn't so brilliant. He remembers, a little belatedly, that he and Blaine haven't really been tight ever since the shorter boy transferred (and stole all the solos. . .and the lead in the school play. . .and all the popularity. . .and Prom King. . .). But Blaine takes a moment, closes his eyes, sets back his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. Finn recognizes the gesture – the same thing Blaine always did before any performance. When the boy looks up again, his hazel eyes are calm and his jaw set.

"Why?"

So Finn tells him. About losing the scholarship, and the grades that he's pretty sure won't be good. About how he doesn't even have a major, or a job he wants. About how he really just likes working in Burt's garage. . .how he _likes_ getting his hands dirty, and fixing things, and being able to handle things really well. About how all he really wants is a job that he likes and maybe. . .well, maybe a family one day.

Blaine just listens to the whole thing, nodding and cocking his head every now and again.

"Wow," Finn finally says when he's finished. "You should be a psychologist. You're really good at listening."

Blaine smiles a little, just a softening of his lips, really. "Have you told your mom?"

"No. I'm pretty sure she'll be pissed at me."

"What about Rachel?"

"Um. . .she might cry."

Blaine sighs, and glances up at the ceiling. "It sounds to me," he says slowly, pausing as though he's thinking carefully about what to say. "like you've really thought this out. It sounds like you've considered your decision, and have a good understanding of what your dreams are. You're going to have to tell the people who love you, and they aren't going to like your decision."

Finn frowns. That's kind of what he'd been thinking, but he doesn't want to believe that's really the case. Well. . .maybe he doesn't have to tell them anything. He can always just go back to school in January and, like, live in a cardboard box. He'll come home on weekends to work in the garage and. . .

Yeah, that kind of sounds like a stupid idea, even in his own head.

"But it's your decision," Blaine says. "You have to make it for yourself. All Carol and Rachel want is for you to be happy – they just have different beliefs in what will get you there."

Finn frowns. Thinks a minute. Then smiles, because now he totally gets it. "It's like you and Kurt," he says. "How Kurt didn't want you joining that Glee club, or being in that gay club, but you did it anyway, because it makes you happy!"

Except that Blaine doesn't look happy right now – he just looks confused and kind of upset.

"Wait – what?"

But Finn doesn't have time to worry about Blaine, because he's filled with a new resolve. He knows what he has to do to be happy, and he just needs his mom and Rachel to understand that.

Xxx

"What do you mean, understand?"

This isn't going so well. His mom is freaking out, and Rachel is just sitting there, eyes big and brown and kind of, like, wet-looking. Meanwhile, Kurt and Blaine are just sitting there. Kurt has his legs crossed and this engrossed look on his face and Blaine is. . .what, is Blaine eating _popcorn_?

Finn's hungry. . .why doesn't he get any popcorn?

"What kind of future will you have?" his mom is asking. "What kind of job will you take if you don't have a college degree?"

Burt kind of mumbles around his meatloaf.

"I thought I could work in Burt's garage," Finn says. "I mean. . .I really like it. I could 'prentice, or something."

"But. . .but. . ."

Burt's looking at him now, and his eyes are as wet as Rachel's. Finn kind of shudders, because he's never seen Burt cry and he really, really doesn't want to.

"I've always wanted to keep the garage in the family."

Oh. That's . .that's really cool.

Kurt splutters a little, and Finn glances over. He still remembers his stepbrothers freak-out when Burt had started spending time with him. But Kurt just looks. . really happy, actually. He reaches out blindly – probably to grab his boyfriend's hand – but just ends up with a handful of popcorn, instead. Finn laughs.

"This isn't funny, Finn," His mom says, but she sounds kind of defeated, and keeps glancing over at Burt. "Although. . .that's a good career. And you would have a guaranteed job, and. . ."

"I've just never been good at school, Mom, you know that," Finn says. "Football was getting me into college but. . .it didn't help me figure out what to do when I got there."

"You've really thought about this?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then." His mom stands up, and gives him a quick hug. It's kind of nice, and not embarrassing, since he's just at home having a nice, normal family dinner. His mom goes and clears Burt's plate, and grabs Blaine's bowl of popcorn before heading into the kitchen. "Who wants dessert?"

Blaine instantly gets up to help, and Kurt goes to put on a cup of coffee. Burt mutters something about checking the oil in Kurt's Navigator – what? – so it's just him and Rachel. She's still just staring at him, silent.

"Do you . . .uh. ..want to go make out?" Finn suggests. She just takes a deep breath.

"So that's it," she says. "You're staying in Ohio."

"Well, yeah," Finn says. He doesn't really understand what she's trying to get at. "I mean, this is where Burt's garage is."

Rachel ignores him. "You're staying in Ohio. Forever. And I'm in New York City."

"Right, but we can make long distance work," Finn says, still not understanding why she's so upset. "I mean, we have so far, right? You come home for breaks, and I can go visit sometimes. And we have Skype, and the phone."

"But. . .this isn't just four years of college," Rachel points out. "I'm never moving back here, Finn. And if you're going to take over the garage for Burt. . .you're never leaving."

Oh. _Oh_. He gets it now. It's not. . .it's not just four years. Rachel's never coming back. He hadn't really listened to her, junior and senior year – he'd assumed that she would go to college in New York, and they'd have a long distance relationship for four year s—which, yeah, would _suck_, but people could do that – and then somehow, magically, they'd be together again.

Except that they won't be. She'll still be in New York, and he'll still be in Ohio.

"So. . .what do we do?" Rachel stands up, twisting her dress nervously in her hands.

"What we have to do," she says. "We break up. I love you, Finn, but I love my dreams more, and I'm not giving up the Met and Broadway just to be the mechanic's wife."

"Rachel. . ."

She smiles at him, a little bit, but she's crying, too, so he can't tell if she's happy or sad. "I'm glad that you've found something to make you happy, Finn," she says, before turning toward the kitchen. "Carole, thank you so much for the wonderful meal, but I won't be staying for dessert."

She walks out the door. He watches her go.

He shouldn't. . .in the movies, don't they always chase the girl? He's not entirely certain. . .he falls asleep whenever Rachel makes him watch those girlie movies. . .the ones he watches usually involve zombies. Oh, God. Zombies. When the girl runs away she _always_ gets eaten by zombies.

Unless she's a virgin. So. . .actually, Rachel should be fine. He's just finished figuring that out when he hears Burt's heavy tread. "Hey, Blaine, good thing I checked out Kurt's car. Looks like you left your key in it!"

Finn puts his head down on the table, and stares at the door. Any minute now, Rachel will walk back in. She likes to be dramatic.

"Um. . .actually, Dad. . .that's mine."

Maybe he should just sing her a song. She always likes it when he sings to her.

"Oh. I. . .um. . .oh. Okay, then. Should I. . .uh. . .stop paying room and board, then?"

Yeah, he'll totally sing to her. He just has to come up with the right song.

"Dad! We're not. . ."

"Mr. Hummel, don't get the wrong idea, it's not. . ."

_Uptown Girl_! That's it. It's perfect. It's all about, like, a girl who lives in one place, and a guy who lives in another. And the girl is totally _awesome_. She'll love it. He jumps up from his seat and runs into the kitchen. Kurt and Blaine both play piano, so he'll just get one of them to play for him. That way he won't have to pay to download it.

When he reaches the kitchen, he sees his mom cutting cake, Burt awkwardly dangling a key attached to a glittery Eiffel tower paper weight, and Kurt with a bright red face.

"Hey!" he says. "I need you guys to help me – dude, is that chocolate cake?"

Yeah, the plan can wait a couple of minutes.

**A/N: More chinks in Klaine, massive wrench in Finchel, and how are Brittana dealing with Santana's recent crisis? Looks like the second semester may not go as smoothly as the first. . .**

**COMING SOON: Either a) Christmas Break Take II, featuring Kurt stressing over grades, Blaine stressing over parents, Santana stressing over xxxxxxx, and Brittany missing Santana (plus. . .Karofsky?) **_**or**_** back to school, where Rachel has to deal with being on her own for the first time in seemingly forever, and auditions for SummerStock are under way. **


	15. Lima: Puck

13:57

**A/N: Short little interlude, because I wanted to fit in some of what goes down over break, but didn't want to wallow, when so much exciting stuff is about to go down in NYC!**

_"Blaine?"_

_ "Hi, Kurt. . .how's it going?"_

_ "Good, but. . .it's Christmas morning. At 8 o'clock. Is everything okay?"_

_ "Yeah, it's fine. Of course everything's fine! I just. . .wanted to hear your voice, I guess. That's the best Christmas present I could ask for."_

_ . . ._

_ "Blaine, what's wrong?"_

_ "It's nothing. It's stupid. Just. . .Merry Christmas, Kurt, and I'll see you this afternoon, all right? I can't wait to give you your present."_

_ "Blaine. . .please. Talk to me. If you don't, I'm going to worry all morning, and you know that I'm far too creative for my own good. I'll come up with all kinds of horrible scenarios and have a mental breakdown and I just won't be able to enjoy the holidays and. . ."_

_ "My parents converted my bedroom into a library."_

_ "I'll probably burn the eggs in my hurry and. . .wait, what? Why didn't you say something before?"_

_ "Because it's. . .it's not a big deal. Really. I love libraries, remember! It's just. . .it's Christmas, and they didn't put up a tree this year, and I don't have my bedroom and. . .it's stupid."_

_ "It's not stupid. You feel like they've moved on. Forgotten you."_

_ "No. No that's not. . ."_

_ "Blaine."_

_ "Yeah. When did you get so smart?"_

_ "Your parents haven't forgotten you. They love you they just. . .don't know how to show it. Go downstairs. There's probably a new car parked in your garage, or tickets for a three month cruise in the Caribbean, or your own helicopter or something."_

_ "Yeah, probably. Ha. Thanks, Kurt."_

_ "Any time. I'll see you this afternoon, right?"_

_ "Right. I love you."_

_ "Love you, too."_

xxx

_ "Hey, Rachel, it's Finn. Merry Christmas! I mean, I know that you don't celebrate Christmas, because you're Jewish, but I do, so I can still wish you a merry Christmas, right? And I want to talk to you. Because I don't want us to break up. I love you, Rachel, I've loved you since forever. Or at least since we made out in the auditorium. Or, you know, when we got together right before REgionals. Or maybe I fell in love with you in New York or_

_ "Are you satisfied with your message? If not, press one to record."_

Xxx

_"Hey, Britt, Santana here. Sorry I haven't answered your calls. I've been on nonstop babysitting duty. Mom's got this new boy toy and. . .anyway. Are you going to Berry's House Party Trainwreck Extravaganza Take Two? I am. So. . .I hope to see you there. I miss you."_

Xxx

_"Yo, you're go for Puck."_

_ "Hey Puck, Artcedes here. We just wanted to make sure that you're going to Rachel's."_

_ "Hey, you know I'll never miss out on the opportunity to see some Nude Erections."_

_ "Puck. . .that was incredibly gay."_

_ "You're incredibly gay."_

_ "I'm a girl."_

_ "I was talking to Artie."_

_ "Right. . ."_

xxx

_ "Hey, Rachel, Finn again. Kurt suggested a grand romantic gesture. So I'm gonna sing to you. Uh. . .here goes, I guess. It's, uh, a song from that play you were in, and I'm pretty sure that it's a love song. _

_ "Your eyes. . .as we said our good-byes_

_ Can't get them out of my mind, and I find I can't hide_

_ From your eyes_

_ The ones that took me by surprise_

_ The night you came into my life_

_ Where there's moonlight_

_ I see"_

_ "Are you satisfied with your message? If not, press one to record a new one."_

Xxx

_"Kurt. Fashion emergency."_

_ "Well to you, too, Rachel."_

_ "I need an outfi that tells everyone that I am one part of a love-crossed lover union. I also need to remind Finn to chase me down, while simultaneously letting everyone know that I'm moving on."_

_ "Rachel, I'm not going to put you in an outfit just to tease my brother."_

_ "Fine. . .could you at least help me with the eyelash curler? I look like a droopy dog right now."_

Xxx

_ "Hi, Rory! I need you to do me a favor."_

_ "Anything for you, Britt."_

_ "Use your leprechaun magic to come to the party."_

_ "Brittany, we've been over this."_

_ "Great, I'll see you there!_

Xxx

_"Hey Rachel, it's me. So. . .Kurt's song didn't seem to work, so I asked Blaine for some advice. So. . .I'm going to sing again. I think this is a love song, but I'm not really sure. . ._

_ This kitten got your tongue tied in knots_

_ Spit it out, 'cuz I'm dying for company_

_ I notice that you got it_

_ You notice that I want it_

_ You know that I can take it to the next_

_ If you want this good, bitch_

_ Sicker than the remix_

_ Baby let me blow your mind tonight."_

_ "Are you satisfied with your message? If not, press one to record a new one."_

Xxx

Puck is down with this. He loves partying, and he loves the frats at college. There's nothing better than keg stands, beer pong, and flip cup, ending with hot sorostitues and walks of shame. Except. . .he kind of does remember something better. A party in his junior year, with just his friends.

Does that make him lame? That probably makes him lame.

His dad helps him load two kegs into the back of the old station wagon. When he arrives at Berry's house, Kurt's black Nav is already parked, as well as Britt's bike, Artie's van, and Mike's little coupe. Whatevs. Everyone knows that the party doesn't arrive until the Puckster rides in.

Still, it sort of. . .sounds like a party when Puck gets there. He follows the noise to the basement door, and lets himself down. Weird, that Rachel hadn't even opened the door.

When he gets downstairs, he's not terribly surprised. Britt is already half-dressed and dancing on top of a washing machine. Artie's beneath her, Santana on his lap, and they're both cracking up and throwing dollar bills.

Blaine is pressed back against a couch, and Kurt is straddling him. The two 'mos look like their lips are physically stuck to one another.

Rachel is. . .singing.

And Finn is sitting, miserably, on the far couch. Which. . .that's kind of weird, because he looks _exactly_ the way he'd looked at all the frat parties. Just a lovelorn, soppy look on his face. Whenever Puck went over to talk to him, he'd just moan about Rachel. Puck supposes that it makes some sense when they're at school, but it doesn't make sense when he's got a piece of tail singing on a stage.

He grabs Mike to help him with the kegs, and within a few minutes they've dragged them down the narrow stairs and tapped them. Tina and Mercedes turn up their noses at the beer, but Blaine is happy to play bartender (especially with Kurt pressed up tight behind him – get some, Hobbit!) and Finn is doublefisting the red solo cups.

Puck's pretty far gone by the time Quinn arrives. She looks. . .good, and Puck has to wonder, not for the first time, why they never worked out. He's hot, Quinn's hot, and their baby is super, super hot.

"Sorry I'm late," Quinn says, smiling sweetly. "Shelby let me come over to see Beth and wish her a New Year's."

"That's cool," Blaine says, smiling goofily. "It's awesome that you have such a good relationship with your daughter."

"I have her a yarmulke," Puck says proudly. Rachel sniffs.

"Those are only for boys, Noah."

"Yeah. . .and badasses," Puck says. He turns to Finn. "My baby's totally a badass."

Finn just shrugs and reaches his cup out for another refill.

At some point Rachel suggests Spin the Bottle, and everyone groans, remembering the last time. Blaine picks up a wine bottle and playfully points it at Kurt. Santana starts the body shots, and Mercedes starts a singing competition.

At some point Tina and Mike disappear, and it really is like old times. Puck gives them fifteen minutes before scouring the house to find their make-out spot. Hey, free porn!

Eventually people start heading out, or finding places to sleep. Rachel's dads had offered to let them all stay the night – keep off the streets, when there are so many crazy drunk people there. By four in the morning, there are just seven of them left. Puck realizes, with a surprise, that it's just him and Finn, and the five who left for New York.

They're all different, somehow. Rachel is more comfortable than he's ever seen her, comfortably draped one couch, her head resting on Kurt's lap and her knees crooked over Blaine's legs. The two boys are holding hands and sneaking kisses. Santana's head is resting on Blaine's knee, and Britt is curled up against her side like a cat. They all. . .fit together.

And then there's him and Finn. Puck's glad that he's not a Lima loser. . .he's at least gotten to college, and although he hasn't told anyone, he's really digging his math classes. He's thinking about maybe becoming a teacher. He kind of wants. . .well, he wants better than what he had. He'll be a kickass teacher, kind of like Mr. Schue, but with balls and a backbone, and he won't be getting cockblocked by the guidance counselor, he'll tell you that much.

Still, as he stands up and heads off to find myself a couch, he realizes that, though everything is kind of the same as two years ago, it's also kind of really different. He wonders how many of them will still be friends in a year. In two. In five.

With a sinking feeling in his heart, he realizes he probably won't make the cut with any of them.

**A/N: PUCK! His first appearance. One down and one to go. Massive spoiler? Maybe. . .**

**COMING SOON: Second semester! Rachel struggles with being completely alone, and with all of her hard work possibly not being enough. . .sounds like she'll need a pep talk from down on his luck Kurt. Meanwhile, Kurt may finally find his calling, in a direction he never anticipated. Santana is still struggling with the Thanksgiving incident, and when she hears some bad news from college, she begins to think that NYC wasn't a great idea after all. Blaine starts to campaign, as **_**Brown**_** is finally being heard by the Supreme Court.**

**Mini Spoilers: Kurt uses the key! Somebody ends up in the hospital! Somebody proposes! A death at home, an abrupt change in plans and an awesome Tangled Quote: "You were my new dream. And you were mine."**

**Get some tissues ready as our heroes return to the Big Apple!**


	16. Laguardia High School: Rachel

13:57

**A/N: Short chapter. Mostly because I had to get everyone situated before the next three chapters, all of which are mad BALLER. Also, last night's episode: adorbs, even though I thought the Mike Chang/mom scene was a little forced.**

Rachel is thrilled to be back in New York City. Home had been nice. . .invigorating, really, reminding her of her roots, how far she's already come, and how far she has yet to go. Now that she's back in the city, she's ready to take it by storm. Not just Julliard (although her audition for the spring showcase is almost complete – a gorgeous aria from _Aida_, since, now that she and Finn have split, she is certain that she can truly express the heartsickness of a pair of lovers cruelly separated by fate. No, this is the season she' going to take on Broadway.

Or at least the Summerstock program in Central Park.

Which is why she's standing in a massive line outside Laguardia High School, along with hundreds of other performance hopefuls.

And Kurt.

He's nursing coffee, having a bit of difficulty getting the warm liquid nad cup under the scarf that he's tied around his mouth.

"Why doesn't Blaine want to try out?" she asks idly. Kurt just smiles.

"He's already got a performance gig at Six Flags," he says. "Which he gets paid for. Besides, unlike you and I, his dream is not to sing on the stage of Gershwin, to thousands of adoring fans."

"I can't imagine why not," Rachel sniffs. "He's extremely talented."

Kurt winks are her, and focuses on his coffee some more. Rachel rocks back on her heels.

The break's been good for all of them, she thinks. After weeks of freaking over grades, Kurt had been pleasantly surprised, and is almost back to the confident diva that she remembers from high school. And she's. . .well, she's redetermined to succeed at her dream.

"I don't understand why we had to get her so early," Kurt whines. "Couldn't we have just come when the auditions actually begin?"

"Don't be ridiculous. We want to make sure that we're within the first fifty to audition. Otherwise it will be exceptionally difficult to be fresh in the minds of the judges. They'll be tired, and may overlook even our exceptional talent."

"Right," Kurt says drily. "Fortunately, if we have frostbitten noses and blue lips, they won't be able to overlook us."

Rachel glances at him. She thinks that he's probably making fun of her. Then again, Kurt just sounds strange a lot of the time.

They stand for another few minutes, Kurt still grouses about the cold. Rachel's toes are freezing.

"So," she says finally. "Have you used the key yet?"

"Hmm," Kurt glances up at her, and shrugs. "Of course. "It's a relief, not having to wait for Phil to buzz me up every time. I still knock, though. It just seems cheap and dirty to abandon all common courtesy."

Rachel laughs a little, and glances at Kurt. It's only then that, she realizes with a bit of a sinking feeling, that he's serious.

"No. . .I mean. . .you haven't surprised him, yet? Shown up in black lingerie and thigh highs, with your hair styled at la Audrey Hepburn in _Roman Holiday_?"

"What?" Kurt splutters a little, getting a few drops of coffee on his scarf. She doesn't tell him, because she's fairly certain that he would freak out. "No. Why would. . .oh my _God_, Rachel, did you do that with Finn? No, don't tell me, I don't want to know, I _so_ don't want to know!"

"Kurt," Rachel hisses, glancing around at everyone. "I'm concerned about you. We don't want another explosion a la Sexgate Senior Year, do we?"

"Rachel, that was a misunderstanding," Kurt says. "Besides. We've. . .done things."

"Kurt," Rachel has her super-serious look on her face now. "You still haven't. . .gone all the way, have you?"

"I am not discussing this," Kurt says stiffly. "Besides, we should be preparing for out auditions right now, not discussing. . .private things that go on behind closed doors."

"You've been dating for almost two years," Rachel says. "I just don't understand. . ."

"And you and Finn have been dating for three, basically," Kurt says. "But you dumped him like a sack of potatoes when it turned out that your dreams are too big for his."

He turns his shoulders and resolutely stares out at the snow, softly falling all around them. Rachel bites her lip. She knows that Kurt struggled last semester, what with not getting cast or making an a cappella group. She's not stupid. She knows that Blaine and her success only rubbed salt into wounds. She'd thought that he was over it, though – he came with her to audition, after all.

"Kurt," she says, laying a hand on Kurt's forearm. "Blaine's not going to leave you just because he's successful, or rich and famous. He's head over heels for you. His clear vocal prowess and charisma, though capable of rocketing him to superstar, top 40s status, is never going to wrest him away from your loving grasp."

Kurt blinks at her slowly for a moment, before his lips finally draw into a firm, tight, toothless smile. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say," he mutters, laughing a little.

"Yes, well. . ." Rachel preens a little. Just then, the doors open, and she gives Kurt a little push forward. "Time to shine like the stars that we are!"

xxx.

Rachel is the thirty-seventh auditioner of the day. She'd really hope to be top thirty, but she supposes that she'll accept what she currently has. She strides forward, confidently, to the middle of the room.

"Hello," she says. "My name is Rachel Berry, and I will be auditioning for the role of Ariel."

"Ariel?" the big (mildly intimidating) man sitting in the director's chair asks. "Well, in that case, we'll need to begin by seeing some dancing."

"Excellent," Rachel says, nodding her head. "I've been taking ballet ever since I was two years old. I perfected the pirouette by age—"

"Right," the man drawls. "I don't care. _Footloose_ isn't about ballet, it's about visceral, expressive dancing. Plus, we'll be updating it for the new season, so what I really need is to see you get light."

"Get. . .excuse me?" Rachel raises on eyebrow. Is the director really asking her to smoke drugs? She's willing to do a lot for her art, but she's not entirely certain that she's willing to commit a crime.

"You know," the man says. "Breakdance, hip hop. Hell, contemporary's making a comeback, so I'll take a modern dance exhibition as well."

"But. . .I. . .I'm formally trained," Rachel points out.

"I. Don't. Care." The man insists. "Are you wasting your time, or are you going to show me what I want to see?"

Rachel takes a deep breath. She can do this. She can totally do this. She nods toward the man sitting beside the stereo. A moment later a pulsing, driving beat fills up the room. Brittany Spears? She can totally dance to this.

She just. . .has to think about Mike Chang and Brittany, and how they always dance. If she kicks her leg up – oh, that doesn't work so well. Perhaps that gravity-defying lift that Mike - oh, now she's on the ground. That's okay, Brittany knows how to slinkily – whoops, how did her leg end up over there? Desperately, she struggles to her feet. Floor work has never been her expertise.

She ends up just combining all of the moves that she learned in Glee club in high school. It will have to do, because she simply isn't trained in this new, dirty dancing. But she can learn – she knows that she can.

"Now let's have the singing," the director says, when she's finished.

This. . .this she can do. She sings the classic serenade duet – _Paradise_. She's certain that she sees them getting teary-eyed, all three directors, but when she finishes they don't ask her to do a dry reading.

That's okay. They were probably so impressed that they just anticipate hearing it at her callback audition. She's willing to wait.

Kurt has finished before her, and he greets her with a bright grin. "How did it go?" he asks.

"Splendid," Rachel replies. "I could tell how impressed they were. How about yours?"

"Let's just say that Kurt Hummel channeled some Karofsky and got into his comedic side," he says, winking. Rachel doesn't really know what that means, but she assumes that he's referencing his complete inability to play straight in the senior musical. Or that he secretly wants to get into his former bully's pants? Could be anything, really.

"So then. . .croissant?"

xxx

It's Friday night. Marion's already left, doing whatever it is that people without boyfriend's do on a Friday night. Rachel just stares at her computer screen. This is when she always calls Finn. She wonders if he'll call her, now. . .she thinks that he will. After all, he's been leaving daily voicemails, some with appropriate songs, and some highly inappropriate (she definitely has to speak to Blaine about that – most of the horrible songs had been at his suggestion, evidently).

Sure enough, at eight o'clock exactly, the computer beeps, and a little screen pops up, informing her the Finn Hudson is calling. With a chocked sob she hits "denied", jumps to her feet, and runs out the front door.

She doesn't know where she's going, really. It's cold and dark. The snow falling is always romantic in the movies, but here, all alone, it doesn't feel romantic at all. It's grey slush under her feet, and the air is tainted by smoke. Black trash bags line the streets, some of them burst open so that rotten fruit and toilet paper is strewn across the sidewalk.

She loves New York, she reminds herself fiercely. She just isn't sure when it started getting so dirty.

Finally, when her toes have gone numb and her socks are sopping wet, she ducks into the warm light of a coffee shop. She doesn't care for coffee herself – she knows that it stunts growth, and she's already one inch too short to play most romantic leads. It may be unlikely that she ever grows taller than she is now, but. . .well, it's still possible.

But the coffee shop is warm, with comforting light spilling out onto the street, and besides, she's certain that it will have tea. So she walks to the cashier, and begins reaching into her purse to pull out a few dollars.

"Hi, Rachel!"

A bright, sunny voice greets her, and she glances up, surprised to see Brittany. But. . .Brit works at the Starbuck sat 86th and Lex. . .surely she hasn't walked that far?

"What do you want? I'll put it on the apartment building," Brittany says, still smiling.

"Um. . .you mean on the house?"

"Of course not," Brittany sniffs. "This isn't a house, silly."

Rachel orders a green tea, and tries not to wince when Brittany opens a bag and drops it into scalding water. Of course they won't brew fresh tea, but couldn't they at least pretend? Still, she's grateful for the warmth, as she cups her hands around it.

"So, why aren't you talking to Finn?" Brittany asks. "I thought Friday is date day."

"We. . .um. . .we broke up," Rachel says, wondering how Brittany somehow managed to miss that over the winter break.

"I knew that," Brittany says. "But you two always break up and get back together."

"Not this time," Rachel says, before sighing wistfully. She blinks away a tear. Admittedly, the tears is just a result of walking in the frigid air, but it really seems appropriate at the moment – very dramatic. "Why aren't you on a date with Santana?"

"She's at her sorority," Brittany says. "Also, we need money. Also. . ."

"Also, what, sweetie?"

Brittany just shrugs. "Nothing. Just. . .Santana's been so sad, lately. She says that New York isn't what she thought it would be, and that maybe we shouldn't have come. She told me. . .she told me that I'm still a unicorn, but she thinks that she's just a horse with a broken horn."

"Oh," Rachel says. She's not entirely certain what the unicorn thing is about, but she's heard Kurt and Brittany throw the word back and forth enough that she knows it means _something_. She puts her hot tea down and steps around the bar, reaching out her arms to hug the taller girl. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sure that Santana will find her horn."

Brittany sniffs, and nods her head, smiling a little tearily. "I think she lost it at Blaine's apartment," she says. "Maybe that's why she visits him so much."

Rachel nods, something shifting a little unsettlingly in her stomach. It's none of her business, of course, but she just can't help but think that there is _something_ wrong going on, something that Kurt doesn't know about. Kurt is her absolute best friend – she can't stand the thought of someone cheating on him.

She's an excellent spy, of course. . .Sam had never noticed her. She thinks that she might be able to scope out the apartment near Columbia. She can get to the bottom of this. . .

Except that she doesn't think she can stand to see Brittany's disappointed face, or Kurt's distrust. Maybe. . .maybe she should just focus on herself. She's good at it, of course, and really, it's what any star does – takes the pain, sadness, and loneliness, and funnels it into emotion and excellence. At the same time. . .

At the same time, she knows that she's wandering back to an empty dorm room. She doesn't have friends at Julliard, and she doesn't have Finn and. . .and she's terrified that if she starts spying on Santana and Blaine she'll lose the only friends that she has in the city.

But she can't lose Kurt. She _can't_. He's the only one who really understands her, even if he doesn't agree. He's her cheerleader, her inspiration, sometimes her mother, sometimes her tie to reality. Sure, Blaine's her friend, too – the Tony to her Maria, the Rock Hudson to her Doris Day – but if lines are drawn and she has to pick a side, there's no doubt who's side she comes down to. Also, she needs something to distract her until the call-backs for Summerstock are posted.

It's decided. The trench coat and glasses are going back on. Rachel Berry, superspy, is back in business.

**A/N: Oh, Rachel, when will you ever learn. . .**

**COMING SOON: Valentine's Day in the Big Apple. Blaine has 3.5 dates to fit into one day: Kurt gets to be romantic for once, Santana has an idea, and Rachel calls on her other half to help her with a callback audition. **


	17. Union Square: Blaine

13:57

**A/N: Reuploaded the chapter with alllllll of the Blaine. So for those of you who read the first half, just scroll halfway through and you'll get Blaine's chapter part two. Enjoy all the fluffiness – the angst be coming.**

Blaine is 90% certain that he's going crazy. Sure, there are a number of brunette girls in New York, and even a lot of Jewish brunette girls, particularly on the Upper West Side. And sure, there are plenty of people who wear sunglasses in February – every day can't be overcast, after all. But there just aren't that many short, sunglass-wearing brunettes in trench coats and berets. And there definitely aren't that many following him around.

It's been about a week now, and he can't seem to shake her. Doesn't his little spy have her own classes, or work? The only time that he doesn't see her lurking around a corner is at his Friday night date with Kurt.

On the one hand, Blaine feels flattered. He's always been fairly confident in his appeal and charisma – he knows that people like him, and he likes to be liked. On the other hand, he's never had a stalker before. Especially one that looks suspiciously like Rachel Berry.

"Oh, Gaga, not again," Kurt moans when he mentions his theory one night (after having spotted the mysterious brunette chatting with Phil on the way up. He's pretty sure that he caught her whispered "Wednesday, 8 pm. . ._alone_"). Kurt then proceeds to regale Blaine with a story from his junior year, when Rachel had evidently determined that Kurt had been cheating on Blaine.

"Oh," Blaine says, about halfway through the story. "Wait. . .was that the week that Finn kept calling and telling me to stand up for myself?"

"Um. . .probably. Wait, Finn called you?"

"Yeah. He kept telling me that I was worth something, and that once a cheater always a cheater. I thought it was just transference, over the whole Quinn and Rachel thing."

"Oh. . ."

Blaine had hoped that after his talk with Kurt, the girl would have backed up. He's been on the receiving end of a Kurt Hummel tantrum before, and they are _scary_. Evidently, though, either Kurt hasn't gotten through to Rachel yet, or she's set on discovering some secret.

"I think it's cute," Jon says with a little giggle when Blaine mentions it at lunch. They're sitting in Popover's, comfortably ensconced between a pair of blue, hand knit bunnies and an admittedly kind of creepy doll. Across the room, seated at a single table, Rachel is peering at them over the top of her memo. She still has her sunglasses on. "You have a fangirl."

"Rachel is only a fan of herself," Blaine says, the words coming out a little harsher than he intended.

"She's even got full spy regalia on. Does she have a crush on you?"

"Not anymore," Blaine admits. He's a little afraid to look at the girl. "What I don't understand is why she would want to spy on you."

Jon frowns a little, clearly considering. He reaches out for the cream on the table, and pours a bit into his tea, swirling it with a spoon. "Maybe she thinks that you're competition of some kind. Didn't you say that makes her crazy?"

"Maybe," Blaine frowns. The thing is, he and Rachel have always gotten along well. She kind of reminds him of a female Kurt, albeit with no knowledge of fashion and a strangely antiquated manner of speaking. He reaches over and snags one of Jon's scones. The other boy gasps and whacks him upside the head.

"Sneak?"

"Mm," Blaine mumbles around the buttery scone. He swallows, and grins toothily. "You like it."

There's a clatter from across the room, pulling Blaine's eyes. Rachel has dropped her menu, and her sunglasses have slid down her nose. She is positively gaping at them. Jon reaches over and puts his hand on Blaine's. Rachel makes a retching sound.

"Are you _sure_ she doesn't have a crush on you?" Jon asks, leaning in a little too closely for Blaine's comfort. "She's acting like a jealous girlfriend who's just found her boyfriend cheating on her."

Boyfriend. . .cheating. . .Blaine gasps and lurches to his feet, nearly tipping the table over in his haste. He knows what this is about, and he has to stop it before everything explodes into a dramafest like it always had in high school. He can already see that she's taking her phone out, fumbling a little in her haste. He chases after her.

"Rachel. . .Rachel, stop!"

"I don't know who you're talking about!" Rachel yells, darting out the front door. Blaine swears a little under his breath and hurries after her.

The cold, bitter wind hits him in the face, furious and harsh, and he gasps a little. Piercing knives explode in his chest, and his eyes start watering. Rachel's paused briefly, apparently equally shocked by the cold, giving Blaine the opportunity to grab her arm and turn her around.

"Oh. . .hello, Blaine," she says, her voice high pitched and flighty. Her eyes glance around nervously. "What a surprise it is to see you."

"Don't even go there, Rach," he hisses through his teeth. "You've been following me around all week. Did you think you'd catch me _cheating_ on Kurt?"

The way Rachel shifts a little uncomfortably gives him all the answer he needs.

"_God_, Rachel. . ." He shakes his head, because he just doesn't know what to do about this. Rachel still has her hand on her phone, and he knows that the minute he walks away she's going to text Kurt. Which. . .well, Kurt trusts him, he won't believe Rachel, but Blaine really, _really_ doesn't need any drama right now. Valentine's Day is in a week, and he's been desperately trying to figure out a way to top his Empire State Building stunt. He needs to talk about this, needs to figure out _what_ is going on with Rachel to make her act so crazy. But right now it's freakin' cold and. . .

There's a Starbucks on the corner. Blaine grabs Rachel's upper arm in one hand, and whips out his phone in the other. After a year at McKinley he's mastered the art of texting one handed.

"Are you texting your boyfriend?" Rachel asks. She looks momentarily confused. "I mean. . .not Kurt. Your other boyfriend. Your _cheating_ boyfriend."

Blaine rolls his eyes and shoots off the text to Jon, apologizing for dining and dashing. At least he'd only ordered a coffee – he promises to pay for the next time.

The coffeshop is absolutely packed, college students stuffed in tight around mini tables and sprawled out on the couches. There's a line nearly to the door. Blaine's used to this one, however, and he knows about the slightly stinky table near the bathroom that is never, _ever_ occupied. Under normal circumstances he would rather die than sit at the urine-table, but today he just wants somewhere warm.

Ew. Kind of gross to think that the pee table is warm.

"This is all very dramatic, Blaine, but I hardly think that abducting me is going to cleanse your conscience or return you to the loving, caring arms of your beau."

Blaine plops her down in one chair and grabs the other one himself. "Okay, Rachel," he says, glaring at her. "Explain."

Rachel pauses for a moment, her jaw set. Blaine can almost _see_ the battle going on in her head – the knowledge that a good spy never reveals her mission warring with her desire to cause a scene. Because it's Rachel Berry, the loud, overly nosy option wins out.

"I admit, Blaine Anderson, I've been following you around. I'll admit, however, I didn't expect to find you with another _boy_. This is so, so much worse than I'd anticipated."

"Wait. . ." Blaine holds up a hand to stop her. "You didn't expect to find me with a boy. Who _did_ you expect to find me with?"

"Santana," Rachel says.

Blaine's really glad that he's not drinking anything, because he's fairly certain that he would have spit it out right in her face.

Sure, Santana has been over a lot. But she's a lesbian and he's _gay_. That's not why Rachel's really upset. He looks at her for a moment, really _looks_ at her. She and Kurt are so close that sometimes he kind of. . .forgets. . .that she's his friend, too. Months of working on a musical together are enough to do that. Right now she doesn't look good. . .there are deep circles under her eyes, and her mouth is pinched tightly. She's wearing an oatmeal colored dress, plain and without any weird bows, animals, or buttons on it. Her nose is a bit red, though that's probably from the cold. She only has mascara on one eye.

Blaine sighs, leans over, and grabs her hand.

"Rachel, what's _really_ going on?"

She absolutely crumples. Her eyes squeeze shut as tears run out of them, and her mouth screws up into that strange shape that it makes whenever she cries. Her shoulders heave up and down and she rests her head on the table. Blaine just holds her hand throughout it, squeezing just the lightest bit to remind her that he's still there.

After what feels like forever, she finally looks up. Rivulets of black run down from the one eye that she'd made up. She sniffles a little. Blaine pulls his hand back for the first time, grabbing his handkerchief and handing it to her.

"Thanks," she says softly, blowing her nose. Blaine winces a little – he definitely won't be using that handkerchief ever again. He cocks his head and waits. Rachel blows her nose one more time.

"I just. . .I need to believe in _love_, Blaine," she says. He sighs. He can already tell this is going to turn into a Rachel monologue. While he wants to help her – he does, she's a friend, after all – he's already beginning to feel the early onset of a headache. He still has to call Jon back and explain, and he has tons of homework for classes, he has to start planning the protest the LGBT committee is organizing and he has to figure out Valentine's Day. Nonetheless, he just gestures for Rachel to continue.

"I thought that you and Kurt were _real_," she says. "You never broke up in high school – you were as solid as Tina and Mike. _More_ solid because you had to fight difficulties while they always had the support of everyone in the school and of their own families. I thought you two would make it."

"We will make it," Blaine says softly, because he can't not. Rachel glares at him.

"Not if you keep _cheating_," she says heatedly. "First with Santana, and then with that. . .that. . .that _ginger_. I know how cheating can destroy a relationship!"

"I'm not cheating," Blaine says, enunciating each word slowly. "I'm gay, remember? Santana is. . .she's just going through a hard time. And Jon's just my friend. Kurt's met him. He's fine with it."

Rachel continues to glare.

"Rachel, what is this really about."

She sniffs again. "I need to believe in love, Blaine," she says again. He tries not to roll his eyes. "Because. . .because. . .I don't have anything but belief right now. Finn. . .and. . .I got a callback but I can't. . .I can't play a lovestruck character when I'm not even certain that I believe in soulmates and eternal romance when Finn and I have broken up and you and Kurt are going to break up, and I can't lose my first love _and_ my shot at stardom because then _what_ will I have to live for and. . ."

"Wait, wait." Blaine reaches out and grabs one of her wildly gesticulating arms. "You got a callback?"

"Of course I did," Rachel says, sounding almost affronted. "My talent is limitless, even if my propensity for believing in love is not."

"Rachel, that's fantastic," Blaine says. "Is that what this is about? You're worried about your callback?"

She shrinks in a little. "No," she mutters. "This is about Kurt. Who is my best friend. It has absolutely nothing to do with my utter fear of the callback and inability to pretend to be in love when I'm not even certain that it exists anymore."

She's staring at him defiantly, as though daring him to argue. So he doesn't.

He just thinks. And then he has it. He grins, and leans forward to grab Rachel's hand.

"Ms. Berry," he says sincerely, "I have the perfect idea to prepare you for your callback _and_ make you belief in love again."

Xxx

February 13, the alarm goes off at precisely 6 am, just like it always does. IT's still dark outside. Blaine rolls over with a groan and his his clock. He doesn't want to get up. He really, _really _doesn't want to get up. His head is pounding, and his stomach is feeling a little off, and his nose is stuffed up.

Today is going to suck.

Nonetheless, he only allows himself to stay in bed for an extra ten minutes before finally rolling out of bed. He has a lot to do today. Starting with his Psychology class.

By the time he's finished with his classes his head is full on pounding. He just pops a few aspirin and heads off toward the subway. Halfway down the block, his phone rings. He answers without even looking at the caller id.

"Hello."

"_Hola_, handsome." Blaine sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"Hey, Santana. Listen, I don't really have time to talk right now. . ."

"Look, McFly, I don't have all day either. Here's the thing. I've been kind of a bitch to Britt lately, and I need to make it up to her."

"Well, tomorrow. . ."

"Tomorrow's Valentine's Day, and I needs to get my mack on."

"So"

"But I. . .well. You know that I have. . .some issues. So there might not be any macking."

"Santana. . ."

"Which means I've got to make things super romantic. And my idea of romantic is normally, like, an extra bottle of lube and a strap-on."

Okay, Blaine does _not_ want to know where that's going.

"So I need you to help me cook a romantic dinner. I'd ask Kurt, but he's going to be all gaga on Valentine's Day. Besides, I know that you already have some baller romantic ideas up your sleeve and I need to steal them."

"Santana, I. . ."

"So I'll be at the Farmer's Market at Union Square at nine am. I'll see you there."

"I. . ."

"And Blaine. . .thank you. Really. Just thank you."

She hangs up. Blaine sighs, and quickly pulls up his calendar. He punches in the new event, rubs at his eyes, and gets on the subway.

It's a long ride down to 14th Street, and he has to fight desperately not to fall asleep. It's hard, though. . .the subway kind of lulls him, like a rocking chair or cradle. He pinches himself a few times, and plays a few games of Angry Birds (not even getting past the fifth round, and that's pathetic). When the train shudders to a stop at Union Square, he squares his shoulders and stands up.

The stop is always insanely busy, between busy men catching connections, young lawyers hurrying to the N, and the myriad tourists and hipsters getting off, but on this holiday weekend it seems even crazier than usual. Blaine just puts his head down and barrels through. Usually he loves the energy of the city – thrives off it, actually – but sleep-deprived and a little sick, he mostly just wants to be done, go back to bed, and curl up under the covers.

Rachel is already waiting outside the Strand when he arrives. She's dressed in the simple, spaghetti string dress that she'd worn in their senior year production of West Side story, her hair pulled back into a simple half-ponytail. He smiles a little, seeing her there, and his headache recedes a little more.

"You ready for this?" he asks. Rachel lifts her chin, a little of that familiar sparkle back in her eyes.

"I was _born_ to be a star," she insists. That, Blaine thinks, might be the truest statement that he's heard from her in days. So he reaches out and squeezes her hand, smiling once before she darts inside. He counts to fifty, which should be enough time for her to make her way to the top floor, even in a bookstore as crowded as the Strand. He takes a deep breath and wills away his headache.

He's used to performing in public – the Warblers had always done their nursing home season, and competition season, and New Directions had been prone to breaking out into song just about everywhere. He'd even performed in Central Park and Grand Central Station with the Kingsmen. This, though, was different.

The Strand is one of his favorite places in New York City. It's the largest independent bookstore in America, and one of the smallest, at the same time. Three floors of books, piled from tiled floor to high rafted ceilings, with ladders and stepstools strategically placed to help get to the books sitting eight feet above the ground. Floating islands are covered with books: cook books, fiction, traveling, self-help, art, architecture, history, genre, children's. . .every book ever published, Blaine sometimes thinks, has found its way into the bookstore.

Between the crammed shelves and the miniscule pathways are usually dozens of people, pressed hip to hip in a store that's hot even in the dead of winter. It's the only place in New York that Blaine is surrounded by people but doesn't feel alone. He takes a deep breath and walks in.

Rachel is clearly prepared, because the minute he passes the backpack dump, he hears her voice rising high and clear over the scuffle of feet and the mumbling of the crowd. He glances up and smiles. The dusty light of the store catches her features just so, creating a halo around her dark hair. She's making one of her ugly singing faces, but she's so Rachel in that moment that Blaine feels a momentary ping of sadness. She knows exactly who she is.

"_Only you, you're the only thing I'll see forever_

_ In my eyes, in my words, and in everything I do_

_ Nothing else but you_

_ Ever."_

People have stopped walking, turning to glance at the bizarre girl who's suddenly broken into song. Blaine's mouth quirks a little and he takes a step forward, throwing his arms out in a wildly theatrical gesture. He's missed this.

"_And there's nothing for me but Maria_

_ Ever sight that I see is Maria_"

Rachel swings around on the staircase and begins walking down toward him, singing "_Tony, Tony_." The people in the way hurriedly press their backs against walls, bookshelves and each other, letting the petite brunette through. She's growing more confident and strong with every step – this is the kind of thing that she'd dreamed about in Ohio, but no matter how many flash mobs they put on or how many Gaps they invaded, the residents of Lima just weren't ready for a full out musical to take place in their everyday lives. These New Yorkers are not only used to it, but they welcome it, familiar with the bright lights of movies being filmed on their streets. A few take out their phones and begin to record.

"_Tonight, tonight, it all began tonight_

_ I saw you and the world went away_

_ Tonight, tonight, there's only you tonight_

_ What you are, what you do, what you say"_

She's reached Blaine by now, and he reaches out to grasp one of her hands. She's still a step above him on the stairs, and they're mirroring the poses they'd struck on the fire escape back in senior year. He almost glances to his left, where Kurt would have been standing just offstage. He notices that Rachel's eyes dart to somewhere behind him, undoubtedly remembering Finn's steady presence in the audience for every performane.

"_Today, all day I had the feeling_

_ A miracle would happen_

_ I know now I was right_"

An old couple is holding one another, the woman smiling up at her husband. A tattoed, dark-haired girl pops her gum obnoxiously, but can't look away. A pair of clear tourists are snapping pictures as their child gets ready an autograph book.

"_For here you are and what was just a world is a star_

_ Tonight, tonight, the world is full of light_

_ With suns and moons all over the place_

_ Tonight, tonight, the world is wild and bright_

_ Going mad, shooting sparks into space_"

They're chasing one another through the shop now, Blaine reaching out every now and again to steady himself against the dizziness. It's the first time he can remember walking through the bookstore without having to awkwardly wedge his shoulder between people to get through.

"_Today the world was just an address_

_ a place for me to live in, no better than all right_

_ But here you are, and what was just a world is a star_

_ Tonight_"

They stop, flush against one another. Rachel is blushing a little, her chin upturned and her eyes closed. Blaine bites his lip. In the play, a year ago, this is when they'd kissed, and the audience had exploded into applause despite the fact that everyone knew that both Rachel and Blaine had boyfriends. Now she's standing there, the same tableau. Blaine lets out a shaky breath, leans down, and brushes a gentle kiss against her lips.

The patrons break into applause.

Rachel pulls back and smiles up at him, before grabbing his hand in her own and tugging them both out of the store, smiling in thanks to everybody who is so excited about their impromptu performance.

They tumble in unison to the sidewalk outside, both gasping in cold air that stings their lungs but still feels fresh and delicious after the stuffiness of the bookstore. Rachel giggles a little and turns to face Blaine.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "I needed that."

"To remind you of your talent?" Blaine asks wryly. Rachel giggles.

"To remind me what it feels like to be loved."

Blaine's heart stutters a little in his chest. Rachel's always had a tendency to confuse acting with real life, but they've been _through_ this already and. . .she laughs again, and pats his hand.

"Don't worry, Blaine, I'm not deluding myself into believing that you and I are destined for an epic love. Just. . .doing that song reminded me of high school, and the love that the whole cast had, even though my boyfriend was only helping with set design and _your_ boyfriend was wearing polyester."

"He hated that uniform. I kind of liked it."

"And I've realized now that I don't have to ignore my lingering love for Finn, but I must incorporate that into my performance. The fact that our love has failed does not make the emotion any less powerful. So thank you, Blaine Warbler."

Blaine sighs and shakes his head. Rachel stands up and salutes him (actually salutes, with a stiff wrist and an ankle click and everything) before she begins walking off.

"Rachel, wait," Blaine says, scurrying to keep up with her. "Does this mean that you aren't going to tell Kurt that I've been cheating on him?"

Rachel just winks and continues to flounce off. Blaine swears under his breath and hurries to try and chase her down.

Xxx

By the time Blaine finally reaches his apartment, his headache has reached near-migraine proportions. He waves a lazy hand at Phil as he lurches to the elevator, collapsing heavily against the wall when he's inside. It's everything he has to press the button to his floor. He rides up in silence, eyes closed, and so, _so_ thankful that the loudspeaker in the elevator is broken.

His keys make a nasty, jingling sound as he forces them into the lock. He stumbles a little on the doorstep, before stopping and considering. Maybe he just needs a glass of water. . .maybe he's just dehydrated or something. Or he needs coffee – he doesn't really remember how many cups of caffeine he's had today, and his body is definitely used to three a day.

Mostly, though. . .mostly he just wants to lie down in bed, and turn off all the lights. His phone buzzes for about the eighteenth time, but he just ignores it. He kicks his shoes off at the edge of the bedroom, and tumbles into bed. The late afternoon sunlight is pleasant rather than piercing, and he sighs in relief when his head hits the pillow.

He takes three deep breaths before pawing at his pants and pulling out the phone. He glances at it blearily. Two texts from Santana, two from Rachel, eight from Kurt, one from his mom, and one from Shane, of all people.

**Hey, Blainers, just checking that we're good for tomorrow. 9 am, be there or be squarer than usual. – Santana**

_Blaine, I am glad that you will help me with my problem. But, Kurt is still my best friend. You understand my loyalties. – Rachel_

_**Why is Rachel spamming my email and voicemail? – Kurt**_

_** We need to talk. – Kurt**_

_** There are pictures. – Kurt**_

___Say I'm coming to NY in a couple weeks. Can I crash on your couch? – Shane_

_**Blaine, I trust you. I love you. Now get on a phone. – Kurt**_

__**Britt doesn't leave for work until ten tomorrow, so I'm pushing our date back an hour. – Santana**

_**I'm sitting in my design class and all I can think of is you kissing Jon. – Kurt**_

___Thank you for a marvelous afternoon. I've called Kurt and explained my clear error. – Rachel_

_**Now I'm even more confused. CALL ME. – Kurt**_

_** That's it, I'm coming over. And I am NOT happy. – Kurt**_

_** You'd better not be dead on the side of a ditch. – Kurt**_

Blaine sighs, and lays his forearm over his eyes. He can't deal with this right now, when his head is fuzzy and confused. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and he _has _to be recovered by then. It's his absolute favorite holiday, and that hasn't changed. He knows that he has to fix this mess first – there's nothing romantic about telling someone he loves them when they're giving him the silent treatment – but he just can't _deal_ with it right then.

He groans and rolls over to the side, pulling his pillow toward him and cuddling tightly with it. It still smells a little like Kurt, the last time he'd been over. Blaine can't help but smile at the thought that maybe, one day soon, he'll wake up in his bed _with_ Kurt, instead of pulling his pants on and retiring to the couch.

He doesn't know why sleeping in the same bed feels so much more intimate than blowjobs or handjobs, but somehow it just does, and he still doesn't want to pressure Kurt.

He groans again and sits up, pulling out his phone. He has to call his boyfriend, because his mind won't settle down enough to sleep until he does. He's just unlocked it, however, when there's a click from his front door. He freezes.

There's a baseball bat leaning against his bedroom door – a Christmas gift from his mother. She'd insisted that he put it in his bedroom and take a picture and send it to her so that she could be confident that he really had it. He'd laughed at the time, of course – how ridiculous was it that he needed a baseball bat to protect himself? Right now, however, he's really, really glad she did that.

He ignores the sharp spike of pain in his hand and grabs the bat. He's probably not a very menacing figure right now – the gel has half come out of his hair, his eyes are bloodshot, and his jeans are unzipped and hanging off his hips. He only has on one sock.

Maybe the murderer will think he's crazy and will run away.

The door is just opening when he enters his living area, hefting the bat as high as he dares.

"I have a gun," he yells. There's a strange, 'eep' sound from the door, and the motion pauses. A moment later it's pushed all the way open.

"I think I'm the one who's supposed to be threatening right now," Kurt says, walking over the threshold. Blaine just blinks at him dumbly, letting the bat drop down by his side.

"Hi," Blaine says. "You used the key."

Kurt gives him a funny look, and drops a brown, paper bag on the ground. "I've used the key before," he points out. Blaine shakes his head.

"Yeah, but you always. . .you always knock first. This time you just used it." He glances at the paper bag. "And you brought groceries."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Well, Rachel said you weren't feeling well, and even though I'm still really confused and mad. . .Jesus, Blaine, you look horrible."

"You look beautiful."

Kurt rolls his eye again, but he can't seem to stop the smile from crossing his face. He moves forward and gently brushes some of the curl off Blaine's forehead. "Go to bed," he says. "I'll make dinner. We'll talk over food."

The next thing Blaine knows, he's waking up in his bed. He still has his eyes closed, but the light feels warm and like morning, instead of dim like the dying afternoon light. He sighs, and pulls his pillow closer. He nuzzles into it, really glad that it still smells like Kurt.

Except. . .his pillow is kind of heavier than normal. And _warm_. He opens one eye, anticipating a spike of pain in his skull. Nothing happens, however, so he tentatively opens his other eye. . .

And finds himself staring straight into Kurt's warm, glasz eyes. He sucks in a quick breath, waiting to wake up, or Kurt to freak out or. . .or. . .

None of that happens, though. Kurt just blinks and smiles.

"Well," Kurt murmurs, his arms tightening around Blaine's waist. "This is just as nice as I imagined it."

Blaine gasps again, because he can't believe that Kurt's dreamed of this, too, that Kurt's wanted to do this, that's Kurt's over his weird intimacy problems, that Kurt is okay waking up with a boy in his bed. He doesn't know what to say, so he just leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his boyfriend's collarbone.

"I didn't cheat on you," he says, his breath still ghosting over Kurt's pale skin.

"I know," Kurt whispers back. "I'll admit, I went a little crazy when I first heard from Rachel. But I figured you weren't dumb enough to give me a key if you were cheating."

Blaine closes his eyes tightly. He's still so close that his eyelashes brush against skin. "Kurt. . ."

"But I still don't like that you went out with Jon."

Blaine pulls back a little, and peers at Kurt. The other boy is biting his lip, that gesture that he makes whenever he's uncomfortable. He's glancing aside, trying not to actually make eye contact. Blaine sighs.

"I told you. . ."

"I know," Kurt whispers. "I know that you told me that nothing's happening and that nothing will happen. But he clearly has a crush on you."

"We're just friends."

"It's not that I don't trust you. I don't trust _him_."

Blaine sighs. He really doesn't want to ruin this moment by arguing, but neither does he want to let Kurt's insecurities prevent him from doing things. With the protest coming up, there's no way that he can avoid the GTBL club vice-president.

"That's the same thing, Kurt."

There's no word from the other boy – just an imperceptible tightening of arms. "Let's not fight right now. It's Valentine's Day."

"Mmmm," Blaine murmurs. "My favorite holiday." He considers for a moment, but the temptation is just too strong. He leans forward and licks Kurt's face.

"Ew! Blaine! Gross!" But he's laughing as he brushes at his face with the back of his hand.

The alarm goes off. Blaine groans and rolls away, out of the comfort of Kurt's arm to turn it off. The lights are flashing 9:20. Why did he set his alarm for 9:20? That doesn't even make sense. . .

"That's the second time it's gone off," Kurt murmurs. "The first time you hit the snooze."

"Really?" Blaine's surprised, and a little impresse at his ability to turn off his alarm without even waking up. So that means that he'd set it for nine, which means he has somewhere to be at ten, so. . .

"Shit!" he gasps, jerking up in his haste. The only thing is, usually he's accustomed to being alone in the middle of the bed when he goes into spasms, but since Kurt is occupying half of the mattress, he falls in a tangled sprawl on the ground.

"You okay?" Kurt's concerned face appears over the top of the bed.

"Uh-huh," Blaine says, smiling a little embarrassedly. "It's just that I told Santana that I'd meet her at Union Square at ten."

"Really?" Kurt's tone is oddly flat. "You have a date with Santana on Valentine's Day."

"Yeah. . .I mean, no, no! I'm helping her prepare to woo Brittany. It's, like, an anti-date."

Kurt sighs, leans down, and pats Blaine on the shoulder. "It's fine, honey. I have to finish up my homework for my design class, anyway."

Blaine picks himself up, wincing a little at the pain from his elbow. He walks to the closet, carefully considering what to wear. "That's right, you're in the second topic, right? Interior design?"

"Architecture," Kurt corrects. "Interior design is the final unit. Wear the red cardigan. Very seasonal."

Blaine shrugs and pulls the named article of clothing out. He pulls off his shirt – ew, still the one from yesterday – before grabbing an undershirt and then the cardigan. When he turns around, he sees that his boyfriend is still watching him, a blush on his cheeks.

He also notices that said boyfriend is wearing a Dalton hoodie and a pair of plaid boxers.

Kurt doesn't own a sweatshirt. Or plaid boxers.

Kurt must catch the intensity in his gaze, because he blushes more and pulls the sweatshirt closer around his body. "I forgot my overnight bag," he says. "I actually planned to head home after dinner."

Blaine just keeps grinning as he grabs a pair of jeans.

"There was no way I was sleeping in my clothes," Kurt says, conveniently not mentioning that Blaine had done just that. "Also, you're never getting this sweatshirt back. It's incredibly comfortable. And it smells good."

Blaine may literally never stop smiling. Kurt just scowls.

"Stop that face. Anyway. You'd better finish your hetero date by five, because I have some big plans for you, mister."

Blaine wiggles his eyebrow. Kurt just rolls his eyes – adorable as ever – before throwing a pillow at his boyfriend's head. Blaine doesn't duck quite quickly enough.

Xxx

"So I was thinking Marvin Gaye, candles, and a lot of sex," Santana says. Blaine chokes a little on his apple cider. While he's trying to recover, he leads her over to a flower stall.

It's strange, navigating through Union Square on a Saturday, without Kurt. This is one of Kurt's favorite things to do – he's always enjoyed holding hands, cooing at the organic food and mumbling under his breath about how excited he is to one day take this home to their house and cook a romantic dinner. Blaine never let on that his heart did a little skip every time Kurt mentioned 'their' home.

Walking with Santana is a completely different experience. She walks with purpose, flicking off the guys who glance at her, and sometimes guys who don't. She doesn't hold his hand, and other couples in the crowd are constantly walking between them. She doesn't know that he likes to stop and stare at the fresh-baked goods, and she doesn't pause to smell every single bunch of flowers. He has to literally grab her by the sleeve to pull her over to his favorite vendor.

"six Christmas roses, please," Blaine says. Santana flutters her eyelashes.

"Oh, Blaine, pookie, for me? You shouldn't."

"For Brittany," Blaine corrects, handing a twenty dollar bill to the vendor. "That's step one. Step two, we're going to buy some pumpkin pancake mix."

"Why?"

"So that you can make her breakfast for dinner. I know you don't cook, but even _you_ have to know how to make pancakes."

Santana considers this for a moment, and then shrugs. "I don't know," she says. "Britt gets confused by breakfast. Like, sometimes it's salty and sometimes it's sweet."

"I know," Blaine says. And he definitely _does_ know. He'd spent countless mornings with Rory as an uninvited guest, complaining that he couldn't possibly listen to Brittany having a debate with her cereal and bacon.

(Sometimes, Rory had told him, she would put the bacon _in_ the cereal – he'd always feared that the blond's head would explode in those moments).

"She does love pancakes," Santana is still thinking. She must decide on something, then, because she pats him on the head. "Good thinking, Frodo. You got a hot date panned for Kurt?"

"No, actually," Blaine admits. "He's planning this one." Santana just blinks at him.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"I mean. . .you always plan them. You always serenaded him in high school, and chased after him, and. . .you were always too good for him. Why's he suddenly willing to put in some effort?"

Blaine blinks. "Wait, what?"

"You're too good for him," Santana says again. She gestures wildly with Brittany's flowers. "I mean, you're the best boyfriend ever – you're just a great guy. And Kurt's, like, this self-obsessed, horrible diva. . .oh my God." She stops, midsentence, as though she'd just had an epiphany. She stares at him. "You're Brittany. You're Kurt's Brittany."

That takes a moment for him to wrap his head around. After all, he's at an Ivy League school, and Brittany had to drop out of high school because she was almost thirty credits short of graduation. He's a boy and she's a girl. He loves to sing and she loves to dance, and he's gay and she's. . .pansexual, or whatever. Santana's still talking, though, and he tries to bring himself back to the conversation.

". . .if I'd met you first. You make Kurt a better person, just like Britt makes me better. Hold on a sec. I wanna try something." She reaches down and grabs at Blaine's wrist. When he pulls back and tries to recover his own hand she digs her nails in. "Don't move, Gremlin. I'm having a revelation here."

He thinks that he prefers when she called him hobbit.

Her hands are trembling a little as she clutches at his hand, slowly intertwining their fingers. Blaine raises one eyebrow. "I thought you were a lesbian."

Santana stares at their hands, before abruptly snatching her hand back. "Me, too," she says, before shaking her head like a dog. "All right, gotta toot it and boot it," she says, slapping his ass and practically running off into the crowd. Blaine lets out a long, low breath.

He really doesn't understand women.

Xxx

He still has one more trip to make before meeting Kurt at the dorms. Namely, he owes his best friend at school a cup of coffee.

"Hey, Blaine! Over here!" Jon gestures from the very back of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. Blaine dodges around chairs and jumps over the cat making his way there. He feels a brief prick of guilt, knowing how much Kurt _doesn't_ want him to be here just now. Still. He's not going to give up his friends just because his boyfriend is worried about something that is never, _ever_ going to happen.

"Hi," Blaine says. He notices that Jon has two cups of coffee in front of hi, one with suspicious cinnamon on the whipped cream.

"Yours," Jon admits when he sees Blaine eying it. Blaine grins toothily, leans forward, and takes a long sip of the coffee.

"Sweet, sweet caffeine," he sighs. Jon laughs.

"So. . .what's the deal with your spy?"

"Oh, God, don't even start," Blaine chuckles. Still, he knows that his friend deserves an explanation. "She thought that I was cheating on my boyfriend with one of our friends from high school, so she decided to follow me around and catch me in the act."

"Hmm. . .is your friend from high school cute?"

"Gorgeous," Blaine admits. "But missing something very important."

"Hygiene?"

"Dick." Blaine gasps and instantly covers his mouth, unable to believe that he'd said that. Completely inappropriate. Jon, however, clearly finds the comment hilariously and bursts into abrupt laughter.

"Awesome," Jon finally says after calming down a bit. "Doesn't she know you're gay?"

"Oh, she knows," Blaine says, flashing back momentarily to their ill-fated romance junior year. "Anyway, she was being ridiculous. You and I are just friends, and I would never, _ever_ cheat on Kurt."

Jon's looking at him with a strange, indecipherable expression on his face. Blaine cocks his head. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Jon says. "Just. . .I've met Kurt, and if you don't mind me saying so, you two don't really. . .fit."

"What do you mean?" Blaine is honestly befuddled, because he and Kurt are _perfect_ together, everybody says so. Hadn't even Santana mentioned that this very morning? Jon just shrugs uncomfortably.

"Just. . ." Jon leans forward, and grabs Blaine's hand. Jon's palm is warm, dry and calloused. It feels nice – comforting. Completely different than Kurt's moistured, soft hands. Uncomfortable, Blaine tries to pull back, but Jon just holds it more closely. He leans forward and licks his lips. "I mean, Kurt's the only guy you've ever dated. This is college. You shouldn't be tying yourself down."

"Kurt doesn't tie me down," Blaine says. "He helps me to fly."

Jon groans, audibly loud, even over the clatter and murmurs of the coffeehouse. "That was the cheesiest thing I've ever heard."

Blaine just shrugs. "Yeah. I'm. . .not very good at expressing myself, sometimes."

"I just think that you should experiment a little," Jon says. "Make sure that Kurt is really what you want. You're not in Ohio anymore. There are plenty of other fish in the sea. Don't you owe it to yourself and to your relationship to try that?"

"I think I owe it to myself and my relationship to be happy," Blaine says. Jon shrugs, finally appearing to give up, before leaning back in his chair.

"Fine," he says. "But remember. If something happens. . .don't hole yourself up. You're too good-looking to be off the market."

"Thanks?"

The conversation shifts after that, to a comfortable one about classes and planning the protest, and how god-awful Nancy Grace is. Blaine jokingly suggests handcuffing themselves to the courtroom for the protest, and Jon looks thoughtful. Jon mentions a perm for Nancy, and Blaine almost explodes into Blaine finally gets up to leave, he thinks that they've dropped everything. But the look Jon gives him as he walks out makes him think that maybe Kurt had been on to something after all.

Xxx

"Hi!" Kurt is a little breathless when he opens the door. Blaine grins, because it's absolutely adorable. But then there's a choked sound from inside, and when Blaine tries to peer around his shoulder he fails because the door is abruptly shut.

"Is. . .everything okay in there?"

"No," Kurt admits. "Tim's having an existential crisis over the fact that nobody loves him on Valentine's Day."

"Oh," Blaine says, feeling a little bad. "Should we . . ."

"No, no" Kurt says hurriedly. "Definitely not."

Blaine still glances back at the door again.

"Okay," Kurt says, as soon as they've reached the door. "Originally I was planning on blindfolding you –"

"Kinky."

Kurt slaps him in the shoulder, but continues on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "_But_ we're going to get on the subway, and I didn't want you to get molested or pickpocketed or anything."

"Okay," Blaine says agreeably. "So where are we headed?"

"Shh," Kurt whispers. "It's a secret."

Blaine actually figures out where they're headed pretty quickly. There are only so many directions that one can go when heading downtown from NYC. Kurt has repeatedly insisted that he won't set foot on Staten Island until he's too old and blind to know the difference. There's a possibility that they're headed to Brooklyn – Williamsburg is getting trendy, now – but somehow Blaine doesn't think that's where they're headed, either.

Besides, Kurt is hopelessly romantic. Which means one thing.

The Brooklyn Bridge.

Blaine's been here before, of course. His parents had wanted to see it when he'd moved in, and every time a friend from home has been to visit, he's taken them on a walk across the historic bridge. He's never been there with Kurt, however. He'd assumed that his boyfriend had no interest in walking above the exhaust of cars, or in heading _away_ from the city he's so in love with.

As he looks at Kurt's flushed face he realizes that his boyfriend is ridiculously excited about this excursion. He can't handle it anymore.

"Kurt Hummel, are you taking me for a walk over the Bridge?"

Kurt gapes at him, before his mouth settles into a smile. "I thought you'd like it. We can watch the sun set and the lights come on, and cuddle to keep warm. Also, there's a Starbucks just at the end, so we can end with a coffee date."

Blaine just looks at him, taking in the sparkle in his eyes, the high blush. He realizes, without any surprise but with a great degree of fondness, that Kurt _doesn't_ want to walk across the bridge. He just thinks that Blaine will want to.

Santana was wrong. Kurt isn't selfish and self-absorbed: he's the most caring, compassionate, beautiful, giving person that Blaine has ever met.

"Do I have something on my face?" Kurt asks, wiping self-consciously at his nose. Blaine just cocks his head.

"I love you," he says, his voice low and came. Kurt grins and reaches out to grab his hand.

"I love you, too," he says, his voice high and tremulous.

They walk across the bridge together, Kurt admiring the lights strung up along the bridge, the way that the Statue of Liberty is lit up, and the lights slowly appearing in the Financial District. Blaine just stares at his boyfriend.

They stand on the bridge together, bodies pressed tightly together. It's a clear night, which makes it colder, but the dusting of stars painted against the black of night makes it worth it. Blaine sighs. He never expected to see stars from the city.

It's only about ten minutes before Kurt starts fidgeting. "okay," he says. "This is very romantic, but it's also very cold. Coffee?"

"Coffee," Blaine agrees amiably.

Sitting across the table from Kurt is completely different from sitting across from Jon. His ankles interlock with his boyfriends, and it's an effort to only hold one hand instead of two. He literally can't tear his eyes away.

"Remember two years ago?" Kurt asks. "When I told you that I love you?"

"Nuh-uh," Blaine says, setting down his cup and lifting one finger. "You told me that you expected me to sing to you. You did _not_ tell me that you loved me."

"I suggested that we be _When Harry Met Sally_," Kurt points out. Blaine shrugs.

"Hadn't seen the movie," Blaine points out.

"I'd already told people how in love I was,' Kurt sighs, reminiscing. "I told my teacher, actually?"

"Mr. Hollies?" Blaine asks, surprised that he remembered the name of Kurt's advisor at Dalton.

"Mr. Schuester," Kurt says. "Right before Christmas, actually."

Blaine's mouth drops open. They've talked about getting together, of course, and they've talked about their friendship before, but they've never talked about this. "Kurt. . .when. . .did you?"

"I think somewhere between 'I know a shortcut' and 'skintight jeans'," Kurt admits with a smile. "But honestly, Blaine. . .honestly I fall so much more in love with you every day that I don't know when _the_ moment was. There was no Blackbird for me, there was just. . .you."

Blaine chokes a little, on his tongue, or the air or. . .he doesn't even know, but his suddenly lunging forward, because he _needs_ to be kissing Kurt, right now, right this instant. It doesn't matter tha they're in the middle of a crowded coffee shop or that anyone can see them right now. It doesn't matter that there's a 50% chance that he'll knock over his cup and end up with a crotchful of hot coffee or that Kurt's lips are still cold from being outside. The only thing that matters is that he has the most amazing, beautiful, _perfect_ boyfriend in the entire world.

"What was that for?" Kurt asks.

"I just love you so damn much," Blaine whispers. "If we weren't nineteen years old and in college right now, I would ask you to marry me."

Kurt's eyes widen, and Blaine suddenly desperately wishes that he had a time machine. What kind of an idiot pre-proposes to his boyfriend, who _clearly_ isn't ready for that kind of commitment, and they're in the middle of a coffeeshop and now Kurt is going to freak out, and _seriously_ who messes up a Valentine's Day date?

"I would say yes," Kurt whispers, breathily. "If we weren't nineteen years old and in college right now, I would say yes."

Blaine licks his lips, which are suddenly ridiculously dry. "Are you coming back to my place tonight?" he asks.

"That's the plan," Kurt says, glancing up from beneath pale eyelashes. He grins, a little devilishly, and snaps his fingers. "Darn it. I forgot my overnight bag."

Blaine shifts a little. "Well, that's okay, we can stop at your place on the way home, or you can borrow. . ."

"Or," Kurt says, also standing up. "You can just keep me warm."

Blaine grins. One part of his mind is screaming at him, _don't do it, Blaine, it's not romantic, it's cheesy and horrible, don't do it, don't do it, don't do it._

Clearly, that part of his brain has no control over anything.

He starts to sing.

"_Just slip me on, I"ll be your blanket_

_ Wherever, whatever, I'll be your coat_."

Kurt giggles and slaps him in the arm, before linking their arms and tugging him out the door and toward the subway. "I was thinking that we could practice a different RENT song tonight," he says.

Blaine considers. "_Take me or Leave Me_?"

"_Contact_," Kurt admits, his face flushing bright red.

A little shiver runs down Blaine's spine, and not due to the cold. Yes, Valentine's Day is _definitely_ his favorite holiday ever.

**A/N: Oh, Blaine, such a romantic horndog. I shake my head in fond exasperation. **

**COMING SOON: Santana still hasn't dealt with her issues from Thanksgiving, and Blaine's desire to help causes a rift in his and Kurt's relationship. Meanwhile, Brittany finds breakfast as confusing as ever and TWO somebodies from McKinley show up in the Big Apple.**


	18. Subway II: Santana

13:57

**A/N: No new episode tonight. Sad. To help make things a little better, I give you an update, complete with massive angst and Santana being somewhat out of character. Sorry, Santana. . .but I do believe that you frequently self-sabotage, so maybe it's not that off. **

** Also, thank you – seriously, some of the NICEST reviews I've ever received. So thank you, thank you, thank you, and I'm so glad that people are enjoying the story!**

No matter how long she stares at the letter, the words don't change. She clutches her hands, fingers creasing the paper. The gentle tearing sound is loud as a bullet in the silence of the apartment.

It would be better if Brittany were here. She'd pat Santana on the head and remind her that it will all be okay, and. . .and no, actually, it would be worse if Brittany were here. Because her eyes would be so vacant and confused, so full of love and so empty of understanding. She'd believe that Santana will find a solution, because she won't understand the reality.

The paper is ripped into a dozen fluttering pieces. A few escape from between clutched fingers, drifting to the ground before she has the chance to throw them in the garbage.

She doesn't know what to do. She has no idea what the fuck to do. She just has to get out of the apartment, she has to, she just can't. . .

She grabs a jacket, oversized and puffy. It must be Britt's, because normally she wouldn't be caught dead in a jacket as fluffy and cuddly as this. At least it's warm, Santana admits, as she lands on the cracked sidewalk outside.

She's almost immediately shoved in the shoulder by a random passerby. She laughs a little. New York. The city of dreams. What a load of bullshit. Wind whips down the street, smelling like rancid garbage.

She could go to the sorority house – her sisters would be glad to have her, Marisol as bright and peppy as ever. But they won't understand, either. They're not rich – most are here on financial aid – but they only have to survive on student loans from September to April. They don't know what it feels like to have those extra four months to worry about, with just a barista salary and a part time job working in the school cafeteria. If they can't afford school, they'll go home, live with their parents, attend community college.

They're not from Buttfuck Ohio, where going home means taking care of five younger siblings and pretending not to hear a mother cry after being beat by abusive boyfriend 8.9.

She could just sit around the 89th Street Starbucks and wait for cute guys to buy her drinks. They'll do it, she knows they will, because they always do. But then she'll have to deal with Britt's confusion, sincerity and just. . .just. . .Brittanyness, and she doesn't think she can take that, either.

She could head to the Riverside Park and call up Quinn, or Puck, or another friend from highschool. She almost does. It had been nice, being home for the winter break. She'd caught up with her best friend – Quinn is doing well at Dayton, finally surrounded by other wholesome, overachievers. She still visits Beth as much as possible, and has somehow found herself a sweet, handsome boyfriend who can deal with all her neuroses and overwrought backstory. Puck's not much better – he was made for the life of a college football player. He'll probably never graduate, but he'll always have the memory of frat parties and slutty girls throwing themselves at him.

They'd both listen – Quinn sympathetically, and Puck only half-assedly, probably while eating chips and dips.

She could visit Rachel.

That's a hoot.

Kurt, who had really helped when she'd come out in high school. He hadn't pushed like Blaine had, and he'd brushed her hair, and he'd been her go-to fashion consultant whenever she _didn't_ want to dress like a ho.

Or she can visit Blaine.

There's a funny little wiggle in her stomach when she thinks of Blaine. She hasn't seen him since Valentine's Day – only two weeks ago, but it somehow feels like more. She'd been over there at least once a week, and called crying on the phone usually twice, ever since Thanksgiving. She'd spent half of her Christmas Break camped out on his couch, grateful for the oppressive silence of the Anderson home. He'd apologized nonstop for his parent's aloofness and his dad's non-too-subtle efforts to encourage them to bang (the highlight had been Mr. Anderson's "oh, you can't make a lady sleep on the couch, Blaine. Your bed is plenty big enough"). But VDay. . .when she'd realized that he was the Brittany to her Santana – or maybe that Britt is the Blaine to her Kurt – she suddenly doesn't want to see him.

She's a lesbo, right? She'd banged half the guys at McKinley High, and had never enjoyed it half as much as one sweet lady kiss with Britt. She totally appreciates a round ass and high boobs, and guys bodies are just kind of. . .well, stupid looking, all hairy and stinky. That means she's into vag, right?

Except. . .except Blaine has really long eyelashes, and girl-pretty eyes and lips as pink as Britt's with her Lipsmackers on. And he's gay, so that makes him kind of girly. . .maybe she's not a lesbian, maybe she just likes the arty type.

It's possible. It's not like she ever macked on anyone from the jazz band. Finn was as arty as she'd ever gotten, and he's dumb as a rock.

She has her phone out and is calling before her brain has the opportunity to catch up with her fingers.

"Hello?"

Kurt answers on the first ring. Her mouth drops open. She hasn't really thought this far.

"Santana? Hello?"

Shit. He looked at the caller id.

"Hey, Ladyface," she finally manages to spit out. "What's hanging?"

"Nothing, really. I was just heading to the design studio. My interim assignment for the architecture part of my design class. It's actually interesting. I've always appreciated the aesthetics of a finely tailored jacket, but"

"Yeah, whatever," Santana says. She's glad to hear that Kurt sounds excited and happy – back to senior year Kurt, and a little less of that depressing, woebegotten specter from last semester. "I've got a question for you."

"Okay."

"You're kind of girly, right?"

"_Excuse me_?"

"And, like, you've always been attracted to super manly men. Like, you're the twink and you always want a butch bear or whatever, right?"

"Santana, that is so _beyond_ offensive I don't"

"Like, Frankenteen's a fucking _monster_ and let's face it, the only thing Sam had going for him was that rocking body. . ."

"Is this conversation going somewhere?"

"But then you got together with Blaine. And he's, like, two feet tall and has rainbows shooting out his ass."

"I'm still waiting for the question."

Kurt sounds kind of pissed by this point. Santana files that away for study later, wondering why Kurt's suddenly got his panties in a twist. She's being perfectly polite, and talking about himself has always been one of Kurt's favorite pastimes.

"So my question: is Blaine secretly the man your man could smell like, or is he really just a massive gaybot?"

There's a long pause, and she almost wonders if he's hung up the phone. Then, however, she hears a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Santana, this conversation is incredibly inappropriate. I'm going to pull a page out of my gentle yet masculine boyfriend's book and ask you what's _really_ going on."

Santana considers telling him: that she might lose her scholarship, because she got one fucking B+, that Britt's paycheck is barely making rent, that they can't afford cable and she's resorted to going out to the bar every Thursday night to catch her _Jersey Shore_, that she's terrified she'll end up a Lima Loser after all, that she really just wants someone bigger and stronger than her to hold her close and tell her that everything's going to be okay.

"Nothing," she says. "How's the sex?"

"Oh my _God_, Santana, I am on my way to _class_."

"I guess that I just miss it," Santana says finally.

"Miss what? Sex? Britt was just telling me about. . ."

"Not sex," Santana interrupts. "Trust me, Britt and I have plenty of sex. _Good_ sex. No, I miss being fucked."

Kurt doesn't even manage to get a word out at that, there's just a kind of bizarre, choked sound from the other line. Santana, meanwhile, is feeling better than she has in days. She's walking toward the Hudson, and kicking big clumps of grey snow, and yeah, life is pretty good.

"Like, I bet Blaine fucks you good. The repressed, nerdy librarian-types are always tigers in bed. Is he super kinky? I bet he's got, like, a swing and some straps in that apartment."

"Stop, stop _stop_. Santana, this is so out of line, even for you."

Santana considers for a moment. "No," she says. "This is about normal for me. Surprised you're still on the line."

"I'm concerned," Kurt says. "Look, obviously you are having some kind of an identity crisis right now. Tell you what. Mercedes is coming up this weekend. We'll have a girls weekend, just like back in high school. You, me, Britt, Rachel, Merci. . .and you can talk about sex and boys or girls or whatever to your scheming heart's delight. How does that sound?"

Santana is ready to keep mouthing off, but something that Kurt's said catches at her. She'd never been invited to those girls sleepovers in high school. She'd assumed that it was just a diva thing – Rachel, Kurt, and Mercedes – but after the second glee club, Britt had started getting invited as well, and Tina. She's pretty sure that even Sugar made a few guest appearances. She'd never been invited.

She was the school bicycle, the schemer, the backstabber. She wasn't one of the girls.

"O-okay," she says.

"Great. Friday at seven, we'll meet at Sarabeth's."

"Isn't that a breakfast place?"

"Cocktails at night," Kurt says in a sing-song voice. "And they don't card. Now, I'm sorry, but I've really got to get this floor plan sketched out."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Santana's blinking, because the fucking wind has made her eyes tear up. "Kurt, uh. . .thanks."

"Any time, Satan – er, Santana."

She's at the river by now. She flicks the phone closed and stuffs it into her pants. The river is flat and grey in the afternoon light. Across it, she can see the lights of Hoboken. She quirks one eyebrow. Hmm. There are ferries that run from Jersey to the city. She bets that the rent is way lower. . .

Xxx

"Santana, should I wear my pajamas if we're going to get breakfast?"

"We're not going to get breakfast," Santana says. "We're just going to a breakfast restaurant."

"So I shouldn't wear pajamas?"

Santana smiles and presses a kiss to the top of Brittany's head. Her girlfriend looks beautiful, hair already done and make-up perfectly applied. She's standing in just her underwear, peering in confusion at a pair of ducky pajamas and an adorable babydoll dress.

"Wear the dress, babe," Santana says. Brittany shrugs, and pulls the dress over her head.

"Okay," she says. "Is Blaine coming tonight?"

"No," Santana says. "Just Kurt. It's a girls night out."

"Well, that's not very nice," Brittany says with a pout. "I feel like we're leaving Blaine out."

"It'll be fine," Santana says. "He's probably thankful to get some of the gay out of his apartment. He and Shane will probably watch wrestling, or something. And. . .actually, that's pretty gay, too."

Brittany appears to be considering a pair of sandals. Santana quickly swoops in and exchanges them for a pair of boots. Honestly, sometimes she thinks that her girlfriend would get frostbite if she weren't taken care of. She glances at the clock. 6:30, and it's definitely time to go. It's okay being a bit late – Rachel and Kurt always insist on being 'fashionably late' – but there's a difference between late and rude.

It doesn't take much cajoling to get Brittany to leave. She insists on leaving out a bowl of milk for the cat – what cat, she doesn't know – but they leave within five minutes.

It's nice, walking down the street with Brittany. Santana always feels a little bit like a celebrity, with a hot piece of arm candy hanging all over her. She doesn't so much walk as strut.

"Are we walking or taking the subway?"

Santana freezes for a moment. It's an innocent question, no extra thought or meaning behind it. But it shows that Brittany's noticed that they've been walking, more and more. It would be ridiculous to walk up to Sarabande – it's thirty blocks, at night, in the cold.

It will also be the second time that Santana's taken the subway since Thanksgiving.

They could take a cab, except that she might lose her scholarship and they can barely pay rent. And they can't walk, not in the cold, and _definitely_ not in these heels. So she squeezes her girlfriend's hand and tries not to look freaked out when she says "subway, silly."

It's not bad going down – it's incredibly crowded, and there's a brief moment of relief at being _warm_ again. Brittany is bouncing quietly beside her, humming under her breath and studying the mosaics along the wall in wide-eyed wonder. A rat scurries along the subway floor. Santana tracks it with her eyes, finally looking up and –

It's him. Or not him, but another him. Gross, stringy-hair, maybe homeless but probably not. Scuffed converse and dirty fingernails. He's staring at her, and when he catches her gaze he deliberately licks his lips. Santana reflexively moves in closer to Britt, and squeezes her fingers. Brittany looks down at her questioningly, but seems perfectly happy to hold hands. When Santana glances back at the pervert, his smile is even wider.

She shudders a little, relieved when the train finally comes, cutting off her view of the creep. She almost doesn't walk in, waiting until Brittany tugs at her hand. She follows, stumbling a little, cursing and pretending that it's her heels.

The car is crowded, and they're jostled in tight. She clings to the pole in the middle of the car, but Britt just stands there, not grabbing anything, muscles adjusting to the pull of the train, never stumbling, comfortable as a sailor on a ship. Santana thinks that someone grabs her ass, but when she whirls around the car shudders forward and only the pole keeps her upright.

"You okay, San?"

Britt's voice is soft and close to her ear. It should be calming, except that Santana looks at her. She's beautiful, but she's also tall and willowy, and no match for skeevy guys in the underbelly of the city.

Is this what her life is going to be? Is she always going to have to carry razorblades in her hair, and sharpen her nails so that they're talon-like weapons, and be ready to fight and scrounge? She thought that she'd left that behind in Lima, but obviously not. If she's with Brittany, she's never going to have someone to protect her, never going to have strong arms to fall into. She'll have understanding, and sympathy, and _love_, but what if that isn't enough?

Just like being smart and studying isn't enough.

Just like working in a kitchen, covered in grease and sweat, coming home exhausted at night isn't enough.

Brittany's tugging at her hand again. "We're here," she says. Santana glances up at the subway sign: 56th Street. Sarabeth's is just across the street – quaint and cute and so, so girly. Or she can transfer to the 1, and take it up to Morningside Heights.

"I have a quick errand to run," she says, patting Brittany's hand. "Tell the girls – and Kurt – that I'll be there in half an hour. I just. . .have to check something."

Brittany accepts it, because Brittany always accepts everything. Santana ducks into an uptown train, something harsh and bitter twisting in her stomach. She's not cheating on Brittany – she's not going to actually do anything, she just needs somebody stronger than her to tell her that it's okay. She just. . .she needs a dad to protect her, an older brother to threaten off new boyfriends – or girlfriends – a best friend who towers over her and flexes his biceps and grunts.

She gets off at the Upper West Side and stares at the familiar apartment building. It's been three weeks. Kurt's out with the girls – Kurt won't show up, and it will be easy to dart in, get a hug, and then go back to where she belongs. Still, she doesn't go up immediately. She sits on a bench and stares at the building, considering. Is this what she wants? No. Is it what she needs? Probably not.

The thing is, though, it's a chance to pretend. Santana's always been good at pretending, always enjoyed the relief that comes with it.

She waves at Phil, but doesn't wait for him to buzz her up. He's really about the worst doorman ever.

She does have to knock on the door, however, because Blaine's always very careful and has locked the door. She only has to wait three heartbeats before it's open and – oh, hello, there's a massive black man filling up the doorway.

"Hey! It's the devil!" the man calls back into the apartment before reaching down, grabbing Santana up into a massive hug, and pulling her into the apartment. She winces a little, patting at his back, realizing momentarily that this is way more than she'd ever hoped for when it came to being hugged by someone strong.

"Hey, Shane, nice to see you, too."

He laughs a little, putting her down on the couch, before he takes the massive armchair. Santana can't stop smiling.

"Hey," Blaine greets her softly. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going out with the girls."

"Yeah, I was," Santana says. "Is. . .um. . .Shane. . ."

"He's staying on my couch for the weekend," Blaine explains. "Mercedes is bunking with Rachel."

"I was just about to head out," Shane says, "we've got an order of wings waiting at the Lion's Head. Do you want me to grab you anything, demon woman?"

"I'm good," Santana says. "Got to head out with the girls."

"A'ight," Shane says, lifting himself from the couch again. He bumps fists with Blaine before heading out the door. It creaks shut. There's a shifting on the couch, and when Santana turns around she sees Blaine staring at her with a contemplative look in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

He's just sitting there – wearing one of his stupid, preppy polos, the same kind that he used to wear with bowties and stupid suspenders, a little too tight for him, so that the fabric pulls across his chest. It's a night in, so his hair isn't gelled back, and he clearly hasn't shaved, and his eyebrows are thick and unruly and there's no perfume, or flower, or fruity scent, he just smells like deodorant and boy.

Santana collapses.

He's there in a moment, hugging her tight and pulling her against his body. There's no softness in him – his body is all harsh planes, bones and muscle, and _God_, she's going to have to compliment Kurt on his taste, because even through the shirt Santana can feel the smooth slide of pecs and abs. As she huddles in close she feels safe, in the way that Blaine's always made her feel safe, in the way Finn and Puck and Sam and Dave made her feel safe. All she has to do, to feel this way always, is to give up Brittany and soft lady kisses and

And that breaks her heart so she cries even more uncontrollably.

"Shhhh," she realizes Blaine is saying, a moment later. "Shhh, it's okay, Santana, it's okay, it's going to be okay. . ."

How many times has Brittany said that same thing? Only instead of pressing her into a firm chest, Britt says it will pressing soft kisses to her cheeks, pink tongue darting out to drink up salty tears. She shudders.

"You're going to be okay," Blaine keeps whispering. "You're so strong, Santana, you're going to be okay, it's all going to be okay."

"I don't _want_ to be strong," Santana gasps. She lifts her head a little, so that she can search out his eyes. It's hard to see anything through the film of her tears, but she can catch a glimpse of hazel. "God, Hobbit, I don't _want_ to be strong. My whole life I've had to be strong. Can't someone else be strong for me?"

Blaine's jaw moves a little, back and forth, his lips pursing like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. He finally mutters out "Brittany?" and Santana shudders again because she cannot talk about that with him. She just can't.

So she leans up and presses her lips to his.

Kissing Blaine isn't like kissing other boys – he doesn't taste like beer or chips or processed cheese. He doesn't taste like a girl, either, not the cherry lipgloss that Britt likes, or the fizzy champagne taste of Marisol (it had only been once, and Britt had been there, so it hadn't been cheating). He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, a little spicy and intoxicating.

He pulls back first, his eyes wide and terrified. He's not a brave, strong man, he's just a scared little boy, but his arms are still strong, and his back is still firm enough to lift her weight.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

She shifts closer to him, pulling her legs up. "It's so much easier to be straight," she whispers, knowing that her breath is hot on his skin. "I can pass and you can pass. I'd have someone to beat up bullies and you'd have someone who puts out. . ."

Blaine tries to pull back, but he's wedged between the back of the couch and the arm. When he shifts, his thigh comes up between Santana's legs, and she parts them, just the tiniest bit. Blaine sucks in a breath, and glances around nervously. "I'm gay, Santana. I already had that identity crisis, remember? So did you?"

"It's not an identity crisis," Santana says. "I know who I am. I know who you are. But I'm just so _tired_ of being strong."

It's wrong, it's so, so wrong. She _knows_ that she's going to regret this in the morning. She's tried having a beard before, and with someone who was a whole lot tougher and stronger than Blaine. But she's telling him the truth, too – she doesn't want to be scared of going on a subway, and she doesn't want to be the one who has to handle everything that's hard and dirty in life.

"I'm not cheating on Kurt with you," Blaine insists, and he's somehow managed to pull himself up to the arm of the couch. She notices that his forearms are shaking a little, the strength of holding himself up. She follows him.

"It's not cheating if the plumbing is different."

The door creaks open, and Blaine's eyes fly over there. Santana catches the relief in them, and _God_ what has happened to her, that someone is so relieved to get away. It's Shane, she assumes, returning with the chicken wings. Blaine's eyebrows fly up even higher, shocked again, and he jerks a little bit, pulling out of her arms and falling over onto the floor with a heavy thud. Santana suddenly finds herself clutching at nothing, falling over the arm of the chair.

"K-Kurt!" Blaine gasps, scrambling to his feet. He's not terribly coordinated in his haste, however, his feet scuffing and pushing at the hardwood floors. Santana turns around.

Filling the doorway is Kurt, the color high in his cheeks, his eyes wide and almost disbelievingly. He looks first at his boyfriend, struggling on the ground, before switching to look at Santana. She pulls her shirt down, self-conscious and embarrassed. This is why she was never invited to girls' night in high school, and she doesn't want to face the betrayal in her friends eyes.

"It's not. . .it's not what it looks like. . ."

"Really?" Kurt asks, his voice high-pitched and tremulous. "Because it kind of looks exactly like. . ._God_, I didn't believe Rachel when she said. . .and Brittany. . .and. . ."

He can't even seem to talk, and Santana can't remember the last time that Kurt's been struck speechless. Blaine lunges at him, tripping over a wire to the lamp and sprawling at his feet. Kurt doesn't move to help him up.

"Hey, Blaine, I brought – " There's another figure in the doorway now, and Santana turns to see who it is. It's another boy, a little older than them, cute in a hipster way, with short-cut red hair and grey eyes. The boy is holding up a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs, and is gawking a little bit at the scene. Blaine groans and puts a hand over his eyes.

"The handcuffs?" Kurt gasps.

"Um. . ." Jon tries to hide the handcuffs behind his back, which Santana knows doesn't make things any better. "Hi, Kurt, how are you doing."

"I've been better," Kurt says.

"Kurt, stop, I can explain. . ."

Kurt raises a hand, delicately stepping backwards. "Stop. Blaine. Stop. I realize that this is probably a massive misunderstanding, and I trust you, I do, but I just walked in to see a girl trying to tongue fuck you, and then a guy that I _know_ is half in love with you walks in with _sextoys_ on a night that you knew I wouldn't come in, and. . .and I just can't talk to you about it, okay? I _can't_."

He runs out the door, and Blaine stands there in shocked silence for 2.5 seconds before running after him, still calling out the other boy's name. Santana stares after him. The new boy walks over to the couch and sits down, reaching out a hand.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Jon."

"Santana," she says. "The girl who was trying to tonguefuck the hobbit."

"Ah," he says, nodding sagely. "I'm the guy with the sextoys. Did you know that Blaine's. . ."

"Gay. As a rainbow, yeah I know."

"Then what. . ."

"I was making a mistake," Santana says, standing up. "I'm self-destructive, and I was trying to destroy the two best relationships I've ever seen."

"Jealous?"

"No. Scared."

She turns to leave, but can't, because Shane is back, blocking the door and smelling like beer and barbecue sauce. "Hey, y'all," he drawls. "I brought chicken wings!"

He glances around the apartment, nods at Jon, and then frowns.

"Where's Blaine?"

**A/N: I kind of love Shane. Despite that fact that he's one-dimensional and AWFUL on the show, I love this random version of him. Also, Jon, don't you know that fuzzy handcuffs are **_**not**_** the best for protests? Sheesh.**

**COMING SOON: Kurt's worried about Santana, but then his cheer-her-up Girls Night quickly devolves into a nightmare. Can Klaine survive this? Can Brittana survive this? (well, the plumbing's different, so they're probably fine).**


	19. Sarabeth's: Kurt

13:57

**A/N: Crazy fast update! I'll admit, I want to finish this by November, not JUST so that Ryan Murphy doesn't manage to make it more AU (still upset that Blaine's a junior). Also, November is National Novel Writing Month, which means I say buh-bye to fanfiction and work on original stuff. **

Kurt's feeling pretty good. This semester is already going so much better than last semester. For one thing, Tim and his girlfriend apparently made up over the break, which means no ore moaning, crying, drunken sobfests. No more waking up to another body in his bed, when he really, _really_ doesn't expect it. So that's definitely a positive.

Then there's his design class. It's just a survey course, appropriate for freshmen, so he hadn't had very high expectations when he'd signed up – mostly he was just excited because there was a unit on fashion design. That unit had, admittedly, been fantastic, but it had been over in a mere three weeks, and he had not looked forward to the subsequent units on architecture, landscaping, and interior design.

Turns out that architecture is actually pretty amazing. He's always said that fashion is pain – sometimes impractical clothing must be worn for the sake of looking good. After the unit, he still believes that. But with architecture, it's not an option. The space has to be functional. Making it beautiful is the challenge.

Also surprising: Kurt is good at it. The years that he's spent drawing clothing has easily adapted to the harsh lines and right angles of designing model buildings. Plus, it requires an intelligence that is sadly lacking in the fashion industry: he has to use math and science, and suddenly all those 4.0s that he accrued in high school are coming in useful.

And, of course, there's Blaine. Not that Blaine hadn't been there first semester, because he had been, of course. But now it's not just weekends and Friday night dates, it's any time that Kurt's class gets out early, or he doesn't feel like homework, or Tim's snoring particularly loudly. Kurt's still only _really_ used the key the one time, when Blaine was sick, but he _has_ it, and that knowledge has resulted in him sleeping over on weeknights, even ones when he has classes in the morning and has to rush out to catch the train.

He and Blaine still haven't taken that last, seemingly overly significant Step in their relationship, but they've gotten over the bed issue. Kurt has to admit that there's pretty much nothing more amazing in the world than waking up to see Blaine next to him. It's scary, how much he likes it, and how much better it makes his entire day, those few moments of seeing the sunlight filter in through curtains, catching on dark eyebrows and a strong jawline.

Kurt kind of feels like an addict.

It just comes over him one day, about two weeks after Valentine's Day, when he wakes up a few minutes before the alarm clock goes off, and thus a few minutes before Blaine blinks his way into a new day. He's just staring at the slight stubble on his boyfriend's face, admiring the way his collarbone disappears beneath his shirt, and it hits him. He loves this man. He _needs_ this man. God, one day he's going to marry this man, and every single morning he'll be able to wake up to this.

It quite literally takes his breath away.

He's a little distant that morning, barely responding when Blaine asks him questions, practically floating out the door when he's ready to head to class. This weekend, he thinks dreamily. This weekend they're finally going to do It. Because Rachel, and Santana, and Mercedes and, well, everyone, is right. There's no reason not to take that final step, because they're in love and they trust each other.

He's abruptly ripped out of his daydream when his phone rings. He glances down at it, surprised to see Santana's name flashing across the screen. He considers not answering for a moment – he's on a tight schedule, and he really needs to finish the previous week's assignment before his drafting class – but his curiosity gets the best of him.

"Hello?" she doesn't answer at first, so he tries again. "Santana? Hello?"

"Hey Ladyface, what's hanging?"

That part is normal, but the conversation gets increasingly bizarre and offensive, with Santana calling him a girl, and then talking about his crushes in high school, and then it abruptly veers off in a completely unprecedented and frankly bizarre direction.

"Is Blaine secretly the man your man could smell like, or if he really just a massive gaybot?"

Kurt sucks in a breath, then, and doesn't answer right away. H doesn't even know _how_ to answer that, because he's not really sure what she's asking. It sounds kind of like she's deflecting, or thinking out loud, and he decides to just ask, point blank, what's going on.

Santana's response? "How's the sex?"

Oh, God, he can't take this right now, he's standing just outside the subway stop, his face is bright red. Are people staring? He's pretty sure that they're staring, and Santana is still talking.

"I miss being fucked. Like, I bet Blaine fucks you good. The repressed, nerdy librarian-types are always tigers in bed. Is he super kinky? I bet he's got, like, a swing and some straps in that apartment"

"Stop, stop, _stop_," Kurt finally manages to cut in. Santana's always veered on the side of being blatantly inappropriate, but this goes beyond anything that she's ever said before. Something is going on.

He takes a moment to appreciate that for once, he's not the one causing the drama, or having the drama inflicted on him, before he realizes that he clearly needs to do some problem solving. Fortunately, Kurt still remembers the solution to all of his boy problems in high school, and it sounds like Santana is even a little excited to join him for a girl's night.

Kurt almost hops on the subway after that. Except that he kind of just invited three more girls out on the first night that Mercedes is in the city (ostensibly to visit him, but Kurt thinks she really just wants a cheap vacation with her boyfriend). He can stand to walk a few blocks, he decides, so he flips open his phone and begins walking toward the next stop.

Mercedes does not answer the phone – makes sense, since it is fairly early on a Thursday morning. It's entirely possible that she's in class, or still asleep, so he just leaves a brief message, letting her know where they're head on Friday and that Britt, Satan, and Rachel will be joining them. He shoots a text off to Rachel as well, and by that point he's at the subway and has to stop.

He checks his cell phone one more time before he heads in to the drafting studio, where he knows he won't have any service. There's just one text, from Blaine.

_You're choosing your girls over me this Friday?_

Kurt bites the inside of his cheek as he texts back: _You know Mercedes is coming in!_

The response is instantaneous. _Well, then Shane and I are going to have a boys night. We're going to drink beer and eat hot wings_.

Kurt makes a face, because that is incredibly disgusting sounding. He doesn't even bother sending a text back: sometimes silence speaks louder than words, after all.

Xxx

"Cedes, you look absolutely fabulous!"

Okay, that call was a little gay, even for Kurt. Nonetheless, he doesn't know what else to say. His best girl friend since forever really does look fantastic: her usual Technicolor palette has been calmed down to just a sleek black outside, her hair is curled, and she's absolutely glowing. He throws his arms out to hug her.

"What about me?" Rachel asks, popping out from behind Mercedes. Kurt looks at her appraisingly. A sweater dress – allowable if common – and a pair of no-no burgundy tights with a beret. It's boring and pedestrian. For Rachel, however, it's the highest of style.

"Acceptable," he nods. "I will not be ashamed to be out with you today, if you're worried about it."

"I wasn't," Rachel frowns. Mercedes just begins walking through his dorm room, picking up various little things here and there. She seems particularly interested by his playbills, and pauses for a long moment by a pair of rainbow suspenders.

"Really?" she asks, one eyebrow raised. Kurt blushes and grabs the suspenders back.

"They're. . .um. . .they're Blaine's."

"Ooooooh," Mercedes and Rachel coo in unison. Kurt just wants to whack them both upside the head.

"Anyway," he says. "We should really get going. We definitely don't want Brittana getting there before us. Who knows what horros they may wreak."

Mercedes rolls her eyes, but obediently moves to put the suspenders back on the bedside table. "Don't you have a roommate?" she asks. "I swear I've heard stories about the kind but frat-hearted boy you've been shacking up with –"

"Oh, Tim!" Rachel says, clapping her hands.

"Yes?"

The boy in questions peeks his head around the door. Kurt sighs. Of all the timing in the world. . .

"Hey, Kurt!" Tim says, walking in and raising his fist for a pound. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. You're actually sleeping here tonight?"

"Where else would he sleep?" Mercedes asks. "Oh. Oh! Is that a regular thing, now?"

"No. . ."

"If by regular you mean half the week, yeah," Tim says, nodding his head. "It's all cool, though, it means that I have a room to myself, to bring all the hot ladies back."

Kurt glares at him with a flat, level gaze. Tim deflates a little.

"Or, you know, no judgment when I have long, heartfelt Skype discussions with my girlfriend."

"Awwwww."

Mercedes and Rachel are apparently very in sync tonight.

"On that note," Kurt trills, grabbing both of his girls by the shirt sleeves and towing them along. "I probably won't be back tonight, Tim, so feel free to cry along with Foreigner all night long."

"I wanna know what love is!" Rachel, as usual, is perfectly happy to help with singing duties.

"Soooo," Mercedes drawls, the minute that the door closes. "Spending every night at your boyfriend's? This is new."

"Not really," Rachel says, waving a hand in dismissal. "Ever since getting back from winter break Kurt's been over at Blaine's more often than he's been at his own place."

Kurt gapes a little, and Rachel frowns at him. "That is a highly unattractive look, Kurt," she says scoldingly.

"Why do you know my sleeping habits?"

"Please, Kurt, I had to spy for that brief period of time, remember? I am an _excellent_ undercover agent."

"Wait. . .whoa. . .back up a second. Why was Rachel _spying_?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Tell us about you and Shane. How's that going?"

Some things have changed since high school, but some of stayed the same. The three of them are all still impossibly self-obsessed divas, and Mercedes is perfectly happy to tell them all about her current relationship as they walk across town to the green line. Kurt loves his bestie, he really does, but he's never been more relieved to reach the subway.

"You ride this every day?" Mercedes asks, her eyes as wide as saucers. "It's like. . .a massive, underground, man-eating snake monster."

She presses in close between Kurt and Rachel, staring at other people suspiciously for the entire subway ride. They finally get off in front of Sarabeth's, where the hostess looks at them like they're a little crazy.

"We close in one hour," she points out.

"We know," Kurt says. "Table for five, please!"

They've only just been seated when Brittany wanders by, patiently explaining to the waitress that she's looking for a unicorn, a peacock, and Mercedes Jones, please. Her eyes light up when she sees them, and she abandons the harried looking hostess to sit down beside them, placing a kiss on Kurt's cheek and shaking Mercedes hand.

"Hey, girl!" Mercedes exclaims. "Where's your arm candy?"

"I got hungry and ate it on the way here."

"No. . .um. . .she means where's Santana?"

"Oh, she's taking a pregnancy test," Brittany says. "She used Quinn's code, so I know that's what she's doing."

Rachel and Mercedes exchange a worried expression. Kurt just leans forward and places a hand on Brittany's forearm. "Britt. . .you know that you and Santana can't get pregnant, right? We went over this in high school. Remember Ms. Holliday?"

"Oh, it's not my baby," Brittany says. "I'm not that stupid. It's probably not Santana's baby either."

"She is a member of a sorority," Kurt points out. "I have no doubt that there's a baby scandal twice a semester."

"Oh," Mercedes nods. "That makes sense."

They each order a cocktail – a mimosa, since that's about the only thing that the place serves. The waitress gives them another strange look, but goes to get the drinks. Kurt claps his hands together.

"So," he says. "Let's spill."

"Finn and I broke up," Rachel points out. "I find it highly insensitive that you would all talk about your exciting love lifes when I am completely and totally alone."

"Didn't you get a role in Summerstock?" Mercedes asks. Rachel lifts her chin.

"A _callback,_" she says. "I still haven't heard back on whether I was asked."

"Okay, whatever, nobody cares," Kurt says, flapping his hand. He leans forward conspiratorially. "I've decided. Blaine and I are finally going to have sex."

"Wait. . ." Rachel frowns and cocks her head. "You spend every night there and you haven't. . ."

"Everything but," Kurt says. Brittany cracks up. When they turn to look at them, she giggles again.

"Sorry. It's funny. Sex. Butt." Kurt and the other two girls roll their eyes in unison.

"Ooh, boy, what are you doing here, then?" Mercedes asks. "You should be tapping that!"

Kurt blushes, and points out that _her_ boyfriend is currently watching football, or hockey, or whatever sport happens in late February with his boyfriend's ass.

"Minor detail," Mercedes says. "Just tell Shane that there's a sale on hot wings, and he'll be out of there faster than you can say 'touchdown."

"Hat trick," Rachel says. "I believe the term in wrestling is hat trick."

Kurt looks at the other girls uncertainly. "But. . .it's girls night. Today is all about you, Mercedes, and healing Rachel's broken heart and. . .well, actually, it's really supposed to be for Santana."

"Really?" Britt asks, cocking her head. "Why would you have a special Girls Night for Santana? We have Girls Night all the time."

"I don't know," Kurt says, just as the waitress brings them their drinks. "Has she seemed. . .different, Brittany?"

"Well," Brittany pauses and considers. "Maybe. I mean. . .we still have sex, but she doesn't masturbate as much anymore, and. . ."

"Oh my God!" Rachel gasps. Kurt sticks his fingers in his ear and starts going "lalalalalaala." Mercedes, meanwhile, is leaning forward and listening intently.

"I think Kurt's gone crazy," Brittany says.

Kurt was kind of inclined to agree, at this point.

They move on from then, talking about their dreams (Brittany explains how dreams turn into fluffy clouds, but regrets become storm clouds) and their hopes, and a whole lot about Finn, which is kind of awkward. And then it's been half an hour, and the waitress keeps looking meaningfully toward the door.

"Okay, where to now?" Kurt asks. He has his phone out, ready to text Santana. Mercedes and Rachel exchange a long, knowing look.

"Well. . ." Rachel says.

"_We_ are going to do some window-shopping on Fifth Avenue," Mercedes says, gesturing between herself, Rachel, and Brittany. "_You_ are going to use that key that your boyfriend had and have some steamy sex."

Kurt opens his mouth to protest, but Rachel beats him to it.

"You have to do this," she says, almost desperately. "For all of us. Finn and I never had the chance to consummate our relationship, and Mercedes is carrying on a long distance relationship with her beau, and Brittany. . ."

"I have sex," she points out helpfully. Rachel ignores her.

"And so you need to go, and share all of yourself with Blaine, and then join us tomorrow, same place, for a breakfast filled with dirty, smutty details."

"You could just watch porn," Brittany suggests. Mercedes cracks up.

Kurt, meanwhile, is torn. Fifth Avenue is like crack to him, and he hasn't seen Mercedes in what feels like forever. He really, really wants to spend more time with his girlfriends. On the other hand, ever since he's decided that he wants to have full on, penetrative sex with Blaine, he's kind of itching to tell his boyfriend.

He can just imagine Blaine's face – mouth dropping open, hazel eyes widening in surprise.

"Okay," he says, and he's giggling a little which is beyond embarrassing. He finds that he doesn't really care. He reaches out and hugs all three girls. "Okay," he says. "I'll just. . .be going then. You girls don't do anything that I wouldn't."

"Okay," Brittany says obediently. "We won't not have sex with Blaine Warbler."

Kurt doesn't really have an answer for that. He blows Mercedes a kiss. "See you tomorrow morning?"

"Yes," Mercedes says, laughing and making a shooing motion at him. "Now go, silly!"

So he does. He shells out the money for a taxi – a rare treat, but one that he feels he's deserved. He's suddenly incredibly glad that he'd chosen to wear this particular pair of black pants – Blaine's never been able to keep his eyes off of his ass when he wears them.

Then again, if he gets his way, he won't be wearing them for very long at all.

He waves at Phil as he heads in, and quickly hops into the elevator. He checks his hair in the reflective siding of the door. It looks perfect, as usual, and Kurt nods with satisfaction.

He can hear voices as he nears Blaine's door, and he almost, almost considers heading back. But then he remembers that Shane is crashing on the couch, and they probably have the television on. He puts the key in the lock and turns it, feeling deliciously naughty at the fact that he's not even bothering to knock. It's like he's entering the door to his own home.

"It's not cheating if the plumbing is different."

The voice is familiar, and Kurt has a moment to wonder why Santana would take a pregnancy test _here_ of all places, before he's entered the room and freezes.

The Latina _slut_ is lying all over his boyfriend, her mouth open and begging for it. Blaine, admittedly, looks like he's trying to get away, bent almost backward over the edge of the couch. Then again, that just means that his crotch is pressed in tight to Santana, and the guilty way that his eyes flicker to Kurt's does not make the situation seem any more innocent.

"K-Kurt!" he gasps, just before leaning back a bit more, crashing to the ground. Kurt's mouth drops open, and he shakes his head, willing the scene to change.

It must just be misunderstanding, he thinks frantically, and he looks around the apartment hastily for some kind of clue. Shane's here, surely Blaine wouldn't. . .not with witnesses. . .

They're both _gay_ his mind is screaming at him, but that doesn't change the fact that Santana's slept with dozens of guys, and Blaine once made out with Rachel, and oh _God_ was everyone right, last semester, when they kept warning him?

"It's not. ..it's not what it looks like. . ." Blaine gasps, pushing himself to his feet. He steps forward, tripping over an exposed electrical wire and falling face first into the ground. It should be funny, but it's really, really not.

"No?" Kurt gasps. He knows that he should calm down, that he and Blaine should just talk. They've always been honest with one another, it's their _thing_ and there's no way that Blaine would give him a key and then bring people back to the apartment. . .at least they would have gone into the bedroom. He _knows_ this, in the reasonable part of his brain, but right now something else is ruling him, something that says _Blaine could pass for straight_ and _maybe he's tired of all the shit_ and _maybe I am girly, and he's realized that a butch girl is just as attractive_ and _Santana's prettier than me_. He barely manages to stutter out the next sentence. "Because it kind of looks exactly like. . ._God_, I didn't believe Rachel when she said. . .and Brittany. . .and. . ."

"Hey, Blaine, I brought. . ."

It's just an unending nightmare. Kurt almost doesn't want to turn around, because he recognizes that voice – Jon, the cockslut who's been chasing his boyfriend all year – and he really doesn't want this situation to get any crazier. But it's like some puppetmaster is pulling the strings, and he can't help but swivel around like a good little marionette. Sure enough, Jon is standing there. Unbelievably, he's holding a pair of atrocious pink handcuffs. Kurt chokes a little bit.

Jon awkwardly tries to put them behind his back, before shrugging and smiling. "Hi, Kurt, how are you doing?"

"I've been better," he says flatly. Santana can maybe be explained away. There's probably a logical reason that Shane, who is _supposed_ to be here isn't. But there is absolutely no possible explanation for Jon standing in the doorway with sex toys.

Blaine is still staring at hi with those pleading eyes, and Kurt has to shut his own, because he can't look at them right. He's always thought that Blaine's eyes are his most attractive quality – big and open and always so, so honest. He can't stand to see the lies that must be there right now.

"Kurt, stop, I can explain."

He lifts a hand, still keeping his eyes closed. "Stop. Blaine, stop. I realize that this is probably a massive misunderstanding, and I trust you, I do, but I just walked in to see a girl trying to tongue fuck you, and then a guy that I _know_ is half in love with you walks in with _sex toys_ on a night that you knew I wouldn't be stopping by and. . .and I just can't talk to you about it, okay? I _can't_."

He's trying really hard not to cry as he runs out the door, and he's mostly succeeding, until he hears Blaine's footsteps behind him. He bashes in the buttons in the elevator, trying frantically to get the doors to shut, but it's always been a piece of shit and today is no exception. Blaine throws himself in, just as the doors start to close and grabs Kurt's hands.

"Kurt, please, _please_ listen to me. The cuffs are for the protest, Jon was going to watch hockey with Shane and me, and Santana's a _lesbian_ and I would never, _ever _cheat on you, Kurt, please."

"Stop talking," Kurt says dully, staring at the ground. He knows that he should believe Blaine. After the whole mess with Sebastian last year, though, he just can't. Every time that he seems to get his life together and that things seem to get better, his dad has a heart attack, or some tramp tries to steal his boyfriend, or he doesn't get into an a capella group, and he knows that this is just more of the same

"Kurt, _please_. . ."

"Stop talking!" he screams, the words echoing in smallness of the elevator. The doors open, and Phil peers in, curiosity written across his face. Kurt has to open his eyes, just to see where he's going, and out the corner of them he sees that Blaine is still following him.

"Go home, Blaine."

He doesn't, of course, he just follows Kurt out to the curb. He stands there as Kurt furiously texts Mercedes. He stands there until a cab pulls up, and Rachel sticks her head out. He begins to follow him into the cab itself, until Mercedes threatens to cut him and Rachel vows to destroy everything that he loves and cherishes. Kurt climbs into the cab.

"Kurt, please," Blaine says, one last time. "I love you."

He takes a moment to look at his boyfriend's face, those expressive eyes wide and – oh God, filled with tears. In the two years that Kurt's known him, he's never seen Blaine cry, but there's no mistaking the wetness in his eyes, or the glittering tracks on his face.

He shuts the cab door.

They haven't gone a block before his phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pants, and is reading the message before he even meant to unlock it.

_**Please don't break up with me. I love you. I need you**_.

He turns his phone off.

**A/N: What? Double the angst? Say whhhhhaaaaa? Poor Kurt. Poor Blaine. Poor Santana.**

**COMING SOON: Rachel wants to get in on the angst, but nobody thinks that her problems really mean anything. Meanwhile Kurt heads home for spring break, and Blaine leads a protest that ends in violence and disaster.**


	20. Magnolia Bakery: Rachel

12/30/2010

**A/N: Probably the last update until Sunday: Heading out of town for some interviews. But I just couldn't leave you guys on that horrible cliffhanger, not knowing if Klaine would survive. Thus, I give you. . .Rachel Berry! **

The dorm is unusually quiet, most of the students already away for spring break. Of course, quiet is exactly what Rachel wants at that moment – nobody looking over her shoulder, nobody evaluating or judging, just silence. She sits in the little alcove beneath her lofted bed, finger trembling just about her mouse. She's biting her lip, ready to press the 'refresh' button.

Tomorrow she'll meet up with Kurt for their regular Breakfast at Tiffany's, before he catches the M-60 to the airport and she either begins pirouetting in Central Park or goes to stuff her face at Tom's Diner. She takes a deep breath and clicks.

The page reloads, with absolutely no new information, and she lets out a long breath, glancing at the clock. 12:01. She was assured that the cast listing for Summerstock would be up by midnight. It doesn't say much for the organization that they aren't as prompt as they imply, and she impatiently clicks again.

This time the page takes longer to load. She gasps, scanning quickly through the list of names. The leads have all been assigned to unfamiliar names – she understands, it's very rare to break into the business with a lead. One must do the time, however. Still, she hungrily reads the names just on the off chance. . .but no, she's not listed, and she begins to look through the chorus.

They're listed in alphabetical order, which makes it easier to check. . .Cynthia Alistair, Tom Ciccione, Hannah Duane. . .but that, that's not possible. Rachel blinks, the letters fuzzing and fading in front of her vision, and she reads through a second time. Yet again, there's a complete absence of B's between Cynthia and Tom. Which means. . .

She didn't make it.

She was cut.

Not only did she not get a lead role, but she didn't get any role at all. The words begin to fuzz out again, and she realizes, this time, that it's because there are tears in her eyes. She doesn't. . .she can't understand. She's a star. She's wonderful and talented and _special_, so how is it possible that she wasn't cast?

She fumbles at her side, grabbing for and finding her phone. She lifts it up to call . . She freezes. She doesn't know who to call. She can't call Finn—she lost that right when she told him that her dreams were bigger than their love. She glances at the cast list, checks to see if Hummel is there, but there's no name between Henderson and Kaits. She could commiserate with Kurt, but inevitably that will result in her having to listen to him whine about not getting a part, about Blaine, about. . .She could call Mercedes, but she's still pissed about the way that Rachel ran around singing "I told you so!" when Kurt came crying into their cab.

She has no one.

Shakily she puts the phone down. She doesn't even know her roommate's telephone number, and how insane is that? What kind of a person can't even call the girl that she _lives_ with, that she sees every day of her life?

Rachel isn't even trying not to cry at this point, she's just bawling as she curls up into a ball and climbs into her bed. She pulls the phone with her, though, because of course she's remember who she can call, who she can always call. She presses number two on her speedial (number one is Finn, and she has to remember to change that).

It rings twice before it's picked up, a soothing "Hey, babygirl, what's going on?" greeting her ear.

"Oh, Daddy," she gasps, and proceeds to tell Hiram everything.

Xxx

Unbelievably, Kurt beats her to Tiffany's the next morning. He's dressed as immaculately as ever, though Rachel tends to think that it's a trifle overdone. Also, she fails to understand how the plaid pants match the paisley shirt or how any of it goes with the striped fedora. She's afraid to ask, though, because in her haste and despair, she's thrown on one of her carousel horse sweaters and she's a little afraid that Kurt will just mock and jeer.

It is, after all, his favorite thing to do when he's depressed.

The strange thing, Rachel realizes as she walks up to him, is that he isn't depressed looking at all. He's nodding to himself, ipod earbuds in his ear, and he's shimmying in that way that he only does when he's happy. Rachel narrows her eyes, stalks up to him, and rips off the headphones.

"Well hello to you, too, Ms. Crazypants," Kurt snits. "What bee flew in your bonnet?"

"You got back together with him," Rachel hisses, sticking a finger in his face. "I know it. There's no way you'd be this happy otherwise. You forgave that. . .that. . .manslut."

Kurt stares at her finger for a moment, before reaching up, grabbing it between two of his own, and delicately moving it away. "You're telling me that I need a man to be happy?"

Rachel blinks. He's still so insufferably calm. "N-no. Just. . .you didn't get cast in the play, either, but you're so happy. . ."

"Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," Kurt says, shaking his head. He's doing that condescending thing that she _hates_, but at least it's often followed by a pep speech about how talented and amazing she is, so she supposes she can listen. "Don't you remember our senior year play?"

"Of course I do," Rachel sniffs. "I was amazing, the epitome of all that Maria should be and Blaine. . ." she winces at the name and glances askance at Kurt. "I'm sorry. Should I avoid all mention of he who must not be named?"

"We're not at Hogwarts, Rachel," Kurt says. "What I meant was. . .remember how I tried out for Tony, but I didn't get it?"

"Right," Rachel says, remembering that very well. That had been a defining moment for her – when she'd realized that, even with all of her superb acting talent, it was impossible to pretend that Kurt was straight. "Because Blaine. . .oops, I said it again, I'm sorry."

"Still not my point," Kurt lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I didn't get Tony, but I _did_ get to play Officer Krupke, and he was the best-dressed, most properly accessorized parole officer ever."

"I particularly liked the silver cufflinks," Rachel agrees.

"We're not made to play every role," Kurt points out. "And really, Rachel, neither of us had a shot at staring in Summerstock's production of _Footloose_." She opens her mouth to argue, but Kurt reaches out and covers it before she has a chance. "It's a musical about dancing, Rachel. If you remember, Mr. Schue made me attend that travesty of a Booty Camp because I can't dance. And you may have been taking classical dance since you were three, but you don't know how to dougie, or get light, or pop and lock or. . .or. . .or anything."

"What's getting light?" Rachel asks.

"I don't really know," Kurt admits. "Which just goes to show why we should never, ever have even tried out for that play. We have to pick our roles, Rachel. Besides, I withdrew my name from the audition list."

"Wait. . .what!"

"Yes," Kurt says, nodding sagely. "I found out that you can't do stage crew if you're on the audition list, so I dropped out." He steps back and proudly holds his arms out. "You are now looking at the new set/fashion design crew member for this summer's production."

Rachel gasps, and steps back. Her hands fly almost unconsciously to cover her mouth. "No! But that's. . .that's. . ._backstage_."

Kurt rolls his eyes – actually _rolls_ his _eyes_ at her, and turns around to look back into Tiffany's windows. There's a simpe, platinum wedding band in the display window, beside a more extravagant diamond engagement ring, with a pair of pink sapphires set to the side. Kurt gingerly taps his bottom lip with one finger. "I think," he says, "that there's no need for an engagement ring. I used to want one – any opportunity to accessorize, after all – but now I think that it's entirely unnecessary."

"Wha – but –" Rachel still can't get over the fact that Kurt has apparently decided to just waste his talent and instead to engage in foolish, pointless backstage work. And now he's talking about _wedding rings_? She splutters a little more before Kurt turns to look at her, a sad little smile on his face.

"Remember when we were here in September?" he asks. "You told me that Finn could never afford one of these rings."

She softens a little, because finally, finally she sees the despair and regret in her friend's eyes. She steps up and puts one hand gently on his shoulder. "You told me that you would kill for one." She doesn't finish that thought, although she remembers the rest of what Kurt had said – that Blaine _could_ afford one.

"We had such big dreams," Kurt says, a little wistfully, lifting one hand to trail gently along the glass.

"I _still_ have big dreams," Rachel insists.

"You'll achieve them." It's said with the simple certainty of fact, and Rachel preens a little. Finally, somebody acknowledging her! "And I'll achieve mine, too. I just don't think that I have the same dreams that I did in high school."

Rachel can understand that. After all, she's 90% certain that she's going to exchange her dreams of singing on Broadway for dreams of singing under the crystal chandeliers of the Met. She doesn't understand why that inspires such dreaminess in her friend, though. They continue walking down Fifth Avenue, turning around the corner toward Rockefeller Center. It's a routine that they have down – they'll go to the center and watch the ice skaters spin around, paying an exorbitant $20 for thirty minutes of time skating beneath the towering skyscrapers.

When they arrive, however, the ice arena is gone, packed away as though it had never existed. Rachel is surprised, but Kurt just looks like he's considering.

"Everything used to be so simple, so black and white," he states. "You were a star or you weren't. You were in Glee or a bully. You were one of us or one or them."

Rachel is just staring at Kurt now – he keeps talking, but it's like he doesn't notice that she's there, or he just doesn't care. She kind of wants to interrupt him and remind him that they're talking about her and her recent fail – no, she can't even say the word – but there's something ethereal and magical about Kurt, staring off into the metaphorical distance. She tries to follow his gaze, but just see s piece of newspaper drifting across the plaza.

"It used to be that kissing another person was per se cheating and was the end of a relationship. Now it's. . .complicated. It used to be that if you weren't standing under the spotlight you were useless. Now. . ." he turns to look at her. She cricks her neck a little to look up at him – when did Kurt get so _tall_? "Did you know that there's only one building in the United States that uses absolutely no right angles? Did you know that Frank Lloyd Wright is the most impractical architect _ever_, and that soon we won't even be able to enter any of his homes because they'll all be condemned? Did you know that Gaudi created some of the most extravagant, daring designs ever and donated every penny to a church that won't be completed for another ten years?"

He stares at her, and she realizes after a moment that he expects a response. "Um. . .no, Kurt, I didn't know any of that."

"Neither did I," Kurt says, and he smiles at her, that little no-toothed, skinny-lipped smile that he always does. "But I do now. That's what college is about. Expanding your horizons and pushing yourself."

"I am pushing myself," Rachel insists. "I practice vocal runs for an hour each day and have expanded my range. I spent at least half an hour on breathing exercises and. . ."

"I know, I know," Kurt says, holding out his hands to try and calm her down. "And that's why you're going to achieve your dream. Because you're willing to put everything else to the side. I've realized this year that I don't want that kind of a dream."

"So. . ." Rachel's frowning, because she really doesn't understand what he's saying. "What _do_ you want, then, if it isn't thousands of adoring fans and the bright light of stardom?"

Kurt shrugs. "I want. . .I want a creative outlet. I want family and friends that love me. I want time to go out with my Girls, and I want to see people wearing my designs or walking through my buildings. I want to take a cute boy on a date and wake up in bed with a man who loves me."

His face gets even dopier near the end, and Rachel gasps – which she _really_ has to stop doing, because at this point she is in serious danger of damaging her vocal chords. "It _is_ Blaine," she says, pointing her finger accusatorily in his face again. Kurt swats it away, but she sticks it right back there, dangling frighteningly close to his nose. "You can't get back together with him, Kurt. He _cheated_ on you. You caught him red-lipped!"

"Of course I'm not getting back together with Blaine," Kurt says, sniffing the air a little. "We never broke up."

"But. . ."

"Don't be ridiculous, Rachel. This is _Blaine_ you're accusing. He can't lie to save his life, and he has a horrible tendency to blurt out everything that he thinks, and he didn't even know that Jon was coming on to him until I told him. There's some kind of a reasonable explanation for Friday night."

"Really?" Rachel asks, eyebrow raised. "What is it, then? Hm? What's the explanation."

"I don't know," Kurt admits. "I haven't talked to him since Friday. I figured that we would take spring break as an opportunity to cool down, and then we'll discuss it like reasonable adults, because that's what people who are in love do."

He glares at her for a moment. "Stop having a pity party, Rachel, and solve your own problems. Because guess what. . .not getting a part in one play? Sooo not a problem."

And then he walks away from her. He actually diva stomps away from her.

Well, that will not stand. Rachel sticks her chin up in the air, _far_ higher than Kurt did, and stomps her feet _far_ louder and stomps in the opposite direction.

Until Kurt turns the corner, and then she heads back in the same direction, because that's where the subway is.

Xxx

Still, despite the fact that Kurt was _clearly_ wrong and despite the fact that she will _never_ listen to someone with his priorities out of whack (really? Stage crew over stardom? Ridiculous) she can't stop thinking about him. Particularly that last sentence. _Discuss it like reasonable adults, because that's what people in love do_.

She's almost afraid to turn on her computer and click that little blue box. She hasn't been on Skype since Christmas break. She only has one contact on it, and she hadn't been willing to talk to Finn after the break-up. Seeing his face would just. . .well, it would hurt, and she's not sure that she can deal with it.

_Discuss it like reasonable adults_.

She's not giving up her dream for Finn – she _can't_, it would be giving up something that's deep inside of her – but maybe there's another way. Maybe there's a compromise. She supposes that she could handle being a movie star in Los Angeles, instead of a stage start in New York. And she's heard that Chicago has an up and coming theater scene, and it's closer to Ohio. . .

The mouse icon flitters, so close to turning on Skype. She doesn't click it, though.

Chicago is closer to Ohio, but it's still not close enough for a relationship, still not close enough for love and marriage and the kind of dedication and support that she needs.

Maybe Kurt and Blaine can work out their differences, but they're in the same city, and neither one is asking the other to give anything up (well, other than Kurt being asked to give up his dignity to get back together with someone who is a _dirty stinking cheater_).

Kurt doesn't know what he's talking about. Some problems can't be solved by _talking_.

Xxx

On Sunday she decides that she really just needs to get out of the apartment. The dorms are practically empty, and hearing her own footsteps echo is eerie. She throws on her green jacket and yellow scarf (which absolutely _do_ go together, no matter what Kurt says).

There's a hint of spring in the air, finally, and most of the slushpiles along the street have melted. There are still a few mounds of dirt-spackled snow pushed up against buildings and huddled around fire hydrants, but there are also hints of grass on the parkway across from Lincoln Center. Rachel wraps her arms tighter around her middle and begins walking.

She doesn't know where she's going until she sees the sign for Magnolia Bakery. Usually there's a long line, stretching for almost a block, but today, college students gone and grey outside, it's just her and a few tourists. Although cupcakes are directly contrary to her diet, today she doesn't care much about diet or figure or what is needed to get a role. She just wants a red velvet cupcake with buttercream frosting and maybe one of those sugar flowers on top.

The smell hits her as soon as she walks in, warm cake mix, butter, and coffee, mixed together to smell like heaven. There's a long display of little cupcakes, cookies, and pies, and a friendly, Midwestern looking girl is standing behind the cash register, smiling politely. Rachel peers in to look at the different desserts, even though she knows exactly what she's getting.

She's prepared to order when she hears it, a cut off little sob, and her head is tilting to see who it is before she has the chance to remind herself that this is rude, this goes against the social conventions that Blaine's been working on teaching her and –

She doesn't know why she should be listening to Blaine anymore, anyway. The dirty cheater.

Still, Rachel gasps when she sees where the sob comes from, a bent-over, dark-haired girl in a tight red top that's cut entirely too low for the early spring, late winter weather that has settled over the city. There are the crumbs of a cupcake spread in front of her, and her face is down in crossed arms, shoulders heaving. Rachel can't see a face, and she doesn't recognize the sounds of sobbing, but she's pretty certain that it's Santana.

Her first instinct is to walk over and dramatically slap the other girl, yelling something like "This is for Kurt, you lady of the night!" There's another part, though, that's frozen at the very thought that Santana Lopez even knows _how_ to cry, that her tear ducts haven't been fused shut by her birthplace in Hell. She's frozen there, halfway between approaching and fleeing, when the other girl finally looks up and glances behind her. Their eyes meet, and Rachel's begun moving forward, feet reacting quicker than her brain.

Because Santana _has_ been crying, she has the tracks of mascara running down her face and her dark eyes are rimmed by red. Rachel may not like Santana, and they may not really be friends, but there's still something inside of her that cracks at seeing somebody else from her Glee Club in distress. They were in New Directions together, and that made them family, even if Santana's role was that of the prostitute second cousin.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Munchkin?" Santana asks, wiping hurriedly at her eyes. All that it does is spread the black make-up more. Rachel grabs a napkin off the bakery counter and hands it to her.

"I thought you were on spring break with the sorority," she says honestly. Santana snorts, takes the proffered napkin and blows her noise loudly.

"Yeah, well, they're going to be all about sisterhood and friendship," Santana says, "and I don't really feel like much of a friend right now."

Rachel doesn't know what to say to that, so she sits down. Santana blows her nose again, and then takes a clean edge of the napkin and begins wiping at her face. She laughs a little, staccato and bitter.

"Fuck," she hisses. "I must look like a mess."

Rachel cocks her head. Kurt's words from the day before flit back through her mind – some things aren't as black and white as they'd thought in high school – back in high school, Santana had fought for her sexuality, had dealt with slurs and annoyed glances, and football players who just thought that being a lesbian meant that she was more willing to put out.

"Why did you do it?" Rachel asks. Santana glances up at her from beneath thick eyelashes, hot and heavy and angry.

"What the fuck do you care?"

Rachel spreads out her hands, placatingly. Last night she'd fallen asleep crying into her pillow, and she'd waken up with eyes that were pink and puffy. She's still tired, and it feels like there are cotton balls in her head, but she had her dads to help put her back together, and Kurt to give her misguided perspective. "I don't," she says. "I just. . .I don't understand. I thought you loved Brittany."

"I do."

"I thought Kurt was your friend."

"He is. _Was_."

"Then why. . ."

"I don't know!" Santana rises angrily, tosses her napkin across the room. It hits the edge of the trash and falls limply to the ground, edges fluttering a little. "What are you, some kind of psychologist now?"

"No," Rachel admits. "But I understand emoting – it's a pivotal part of my training. And I know that if you don't have something to channel all of that hate and anger into. . .it turns you into something dark and ugly."

"Whatever," Santana hisses. "You don't know. You don't understand. You have your perfect fucking family paying your way through college, you're at a school that places you directly in a job, you have your faggy best friend and your tree trunk boyfriend and you. . .you just don't get it."

She doesn't say anything else, just lifts one finger at Rachel and storms out the door. Rachel just sits there, stunned, for a long moment. She understands pain, she _does_, she broke up with Finn for her dream, she's given up everything, and now she's faced failure and rejection. Why does everyone keep telling her that she doesn't understand, why do they all keep pretending that her problems are silly?

She pulls out her phone and stares at it blankly. There are still seven days of spring break left. She doesn't have a show to practice for, and New York feels empty, lonely, and dirty. She can book a flight home and spend the last week curled up in her bedroom, with her dads bringing her warm tea and blankets, surrounded by people who love her. She can visit Quinn and Puck, maybe see Tina and Artie, definitely duet with Rory, have coffee with her mom. . .

If she goes back to Lima, though, she'll have to see Finn. She'll have to. There's a curling little feeling in her stomach telling her that she wants to, that she was stupid to give him up, that that. . .

Oh, fuck. Her hand raises to cover her lips, not certain if she's spoken around. She glances at the girl behind the counter, who is pulling a tray of cupcakes out of the oven, completely ignoring Rachel. She stands, shakily, grabs her purse and hurries out of the warmth of Magnolia's. She messed up. She messed up, because even if she and Finn can't be _together_, they can still be friends. They were friends all of her sophomore year, and half her junior year, and she needs someone who believes in her as completely as he does. She pulls out her phone and dials home.

She's biting her lip when he picks up on the second ring, terrified that he'll see her name and not answer. When he does, his voice is breathless and surprised, rough and worn. She almost cries at the familiarity of it.

"Rachel?"

"Finn!" she gasps out, and sags against the side of the building, ignoring the soot and grime that must be getting on her jacket. Her knees almost can't support her and how, _how_ did she possibly survive for three months without hearing his voice?

"Hey, it's. . .it's not really a good time."

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," Rachel says. She knows that she's babbling, but she can't bear him hanging up the phone, and she knows that he won't do it if she's still talking. His mother taught him manners, and he won't hang up mid-sentence.

"No, Rach, I'm really glad you called, it's just. . .it's not. . ."

Another voice interrupts, loud enough that Rachel can hear it, high and breathless.

"Finn. . .is that Rachel? Give me the phone."

"What? No. She called me, not you."

"Finn, give me the goddamn phone!"

There's static and the sound of wrestling, and Rachel gasps out a little sob.

"Rachel? Finn again. Sorry, Kurt's. . .he's kind of freaking out. You know how he gets."

"Yes, of course," Rachel says, a little warmed at the thought that Kurt is so concerned, until she realizes that he's undoubtedly concerned about _Finn_ and not her. "So how. . .how have you been."

"I've been okay. Good. Working at the. . .Kurt, give me my phone back!"

His voice has faded by the end. Rachel straightens.

"Hello?" Kurt asks. Rachel frowns.

"Kurt, give that phone back! I was thinking about what you said, and I've decided to rectify the situation with your stepbrother and"

"Rachel, _shut up_," Kurt snaps. "This isn't about you for once. It's not about. . ."

_Flight 262 to Minneapolis is boarding now, Zone 1._

"Kurt. . .are you at an airport?"

"Yes," Kurt says lowly. Rachel pauses, wondering what he was possibly doing at an airport. "Listen. I need you to go to St. Olaf's down by the village. It's a hospital."

"Okay. . ." Rachel's trying to imagine who could possibly be in the hospital, but she's coming up blank. It's spring break and everybody is _gone_. Unless. . .

"Oh my goodness, Kurt, is it Patti? Is she. . ."

"No, no it's. . .it's Bl-Bl-Bl . . ." Kurt can't even finish the word, and there's another scuffle before Finn's back on the phone. Rachel is beyond confused.

"Finn, what's going on?"

"We're at the airport with the Anderson's. Blaine's in the hospital and they won't tell his parents anything over the phone, just that he's in surgery. Kurt wants you to. . .to go there and I guess just be there."

"Of course," Rachel says. She has a brief flash of – _that's what cheaters deserve_ – but it's quickly replaced by nights spent sitting in Blaine's apartment with bottles of champagne, Blaine singing for Kurt in front of Betheseda Fountain, Blaine running lines with her for RENT, Blaine sitting in the front row of her performance, Blaine bringing her and Kurt to the top of the Empire State Building, Blaine singing in the Strand with her. . .

Two years of friendship and what was still the best date of her life. Expressive eyes that can't lie and a mouth that quirks whenever she tries. Kurt's right. There's some kind of reasonable explanation. She feels an intense rush of guilt. Santana's crying, alone, in bakeries, Finn and Kurt are stranded at the bakery, and Blaine's in the hospital. The fact that she didn't get called back for a part that she didn't deserve is suddenly of minuscule importance.

"Of course," she says again. "I'm leaving right now. And Finn. . ."

"Hmm?"

"I really miss you."

There's a pause, and she almost thinks that he's going to hang up, until she hears his voice, soft and low, the way it goes when he's smiling at her.

"I miss you, too."

**A/N: HAHAHA. You see what I did there? Promised to get rid of one cliffhanger, but instead I just gave you another one!**

**COMING SOON: Blaine's protest turns violent, difficult times at the hospital, a proposal, and a death.**


	21. Fifth Avenue: Blaine

12/30/2010

**A/N: I am so, so sorry about that long delay in updates. On the other hand. . .I did promise an update Sunday. And. . .it is Sunday! Also, thank you all so much for all of the wonderful reviews. It's been a pleasure and an honor writing for you. Enjoy!**

Blaine is completely done with the Columbia library. Usually it's beautiful, and peaceful, and the perfect place to study. Normally he likes the silence in the library, the way that the only sound is the breathing of other students, the rustling of pages, and the occasional sharp tap as somebody enters or exits. There's a kind of camaraderie in the shared quiet. He knows that other students find it intimidating, but despite a year at McKinley he's still accustomed to the shared study spaces of Dalton, and he welcomes the solidarity of the library.

But now, with spring break present and most of the students gone, it's oppressive. He keeps glancing over the table at Jon, wanting the other boy to say something, wanting to say something to _him_, but unwilling to break the silence. Instead they just sit there, side by side, folding pamphlets and amassing a pile of paper.

It's been almost two hours when Blaine finally snaps. He's folded over 4,000 pamphlets and Jon probably more, based on the pile to his left. The sun is disappearing through the library windows, and Blaine can barely believe that he wasted the first day of spring break in the library. It's for a good cause, he reminds himself, glancing at the Prop 8 posters. After all, it will be a landmark decision by the Supreme Court, whichever way it goes, either validating gay people across the country or casting their rights into serious doubt.

It's important that the community come together and support one another

Even so, Blaine is still itching to leave, to do _something_. He's never been good at sitting still, at biting his tongue, and it's even worse when he knows that most of his friends are back home in Ohio, or on cruises or trips. It hurts that even their LGBT group has fled for the vacation period.

"I'm going to get a coffee," he whispers to the vice president, wincing at how loud his voice sounds in the library. A few law students glance up at him angrily, and he waves nervously. He hears a snort.

"I'll come," Jon says, stretching his hands. He shakes his head ruefully before standing up, pushing his chair back with a _creak_ that has all the law students glaring their way again. Jon just rolls his eyes and sticks up his middle finger before walking away. Blaine follows quickly behind him.

They both, in unison, suck in deep breaths of cool spring air as they step outside. Blaine coughs, once, as though the dust of the library somehow lodged in his lungs. Jon sighs.

"I'm really sorry about you and Kurt," he says. Blaine just glances over.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, it's pretty obvious what he thought, after I showed up with the handcuffs." Jon pats Blaine on the shoulder. "It's okay. First loves never laugh."

Blaine stares at him, flat and a little baffled. "What are you talking about?"

"High school love never makes it through college," Jon says. "You grow up, grow apart. . .find people who have more in common with you. . ."

Jon reaches out and grabs Blaine's hand, lacing their fingers together before Blaine even has the chance to protest. He looks in disbelief at where their hands are clasped.

"If you ever want to talk about the breakup," Jon says earnestly, "I'm here for you."

Blaine wretches his hand away and shakes his head. "I think you're confused," He says. "Kurt and I didn't break up."

If looks could kill, Jon would be locked up for twenty years. Blaine actually takes a step back for a moment, before Jon manages to settle his face into a passive mask.

"You didn't?"

"No," Blaine says, resolutely, although there's a little portion of his heart wondering if he's really speaking the truth. They haven't broken up, _per se_, but there is that awkward series of texts currently saved in his phone.

_**Please don't break up with me. I love you. I need you**_.

And then, almost ten hours later.

_I need some time._

_**As much as you need. I'll be here.**_

___Heading back to Ohio. Coffee when I get back?_

_**Of course. I'm sorry. I love you**__._

A thirty minute interlude, as though Kurt is considering what to respond, until finally. . .

_I'm sorry, too. Love you_.

So he's pretty sure that they didn't break up, despite the silence since spring break started (only two days, Blaine reminds himself harshly) and despite the "need to talk." It's all going to be fine, though, because talking for them is good news.

"I'm sorry," Jon says. "I shouldn't have assumed. Anyway. Do you still want to meet up tomorrow before the march?"

Blaine considers saying no, he really does. There's a very big part of him that wants to say no, to just get away from Jon. It feels terrifyingly close to the Sebastian situation senior year, and he doesn't want to put Kurt through that again. He doesn't want that strain on their relationship, especially not when it's already so strained with the Santana situation and the handcuffs. . .

But this is important. The march isn't just about him, and it isn't just about the LGBT community at Columbia. He's been working for months on the march, and civil rights activists have been fighting for gay marriage for longer than he's been alive. He'll just have to put his personal issues behind him.

"Sure," he says. "Sure."

Xxx

Blaine spends an hour agonizing over what to wear in the morning. If Kurt and he were still on regular speaking terms, he would ask his boyfriend for advice – and then, in all honesty, probably do the exact opposite. But there is no Kurt, and he's stuck staring at a pair of jeans and a polo.

It's simple. It doesn't say _anything_.

What does he _want_ it to say?

There's a part of him that wants to wear his rainbow suspenders (though they're still at Kurt's dorm, he's pretty sure) or a PRIDE shirt or a royal purple pull-over. But there's another part of him that wants to be simple and straight. . .to just say "I'm a person." Being gay doesn't define him, and he doesn't want to give the impression that it does.

He pulls on the clothes and steps out the door. There's a fluttery feeling in his stomach, nerves he's pretty sure. There's something different in them today – different than when he's performing with the Kingsmen, or when he's on his way to see Kurt – something dark and scary.

He tells himself to ignore it.

Jon meets him at the corner, as promised, along with Alice, and Tony, and a few other kids from Columbia. Blaine smiles, catches Jon's eyes. His friend winks at him, and Blaine lets out a long sigh. He can almost feel the tension leaving his shoulders. Today is not about him, he reminds himself. Today is about all of them.

They have bagels and coffee for breakfast, before walking across to the Columbia Student Offices. They pick up their signs, all of them quiet, filled with short, quiet giggles at anything remotely funny. Blaine hops up and down, nervous energy filling his very being. This is it, he thinks fiercely.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, just before they hop on the subway. He takes a moment to pull it out and look at the message.

_Good luck today. I love you_.

Another vibration and then

_Courage_.

Blaine quite literally can't control his smile as he heads down into the depths of the subway. Alice, Jon, and the others are miling around the turnstile, waiting for him. When he arrives, Alice slings an arm over his shoulders, and Jon loops an arm through Blaine's left.

It's thirty minutes to make it to 42nd street. They briefly consider taking the 7 across to the East Side, before deciding just to walk. A few people glance at them as they head up the escalator, peering at the signs that they're holding tight to their bodies, or the bags bulging with pamphlets. Most people ignore them, however, innured to the New York attitude of indifference. Blaine keeps bouncing on the balls of his feet.

There's already a crowd gathered on 5th Avenue, even though they're still half an hour early. Blaine stares around at them, his mouth a little agape. He and Kurt have talked about attending PRIDE for years, and he can't help but wonder how anything can be bigger than this. There are the traditional hipsters, down for any kind of a march, police officers in uniform, men in business suits, and hordes upon hordes of people dressed simply and cleanly like himself. There are also drag queens walking around, and men with brightly dyed hair and piercings, women in flannel and pastel. Gay and straight, and transgendered. Blaine would probably have stayed standing there, his mouth open like a yokel from Ohio, if Jon didn't shove him.

"Hand out stacks of pamphlets," he encourages. Blaine nods, a little dumbly, before hurrying through the crowd.

Everybody smiles at him, some give him hugs, some firm handshakes. It's so different from the New York that Blaine's gotten used to that his heart almost seizes. They take thick stacks of pamphlets. Some read through some, some promise to hand them out. He keeps to the edges of the crowds, as Alice had advised. After all, the pamphlets aren't for the people marching – it's for everyone else they meet, who don't know what's happening in Washington D.C., who don't realize that legalizing gay marriage in New York has not extended that right to everyone.

At noon exactly, one of the march leaders steps to the front with a megaphone. Blaine is near the back, by now, having handed out almost all of his pamphlets. He strains to hear, to see over the heads of the thousand-strong crowd, but all that he gets is that it's time to go. The tight heat in the pit of his stomach is coiling now, blooming through his body.

Maybe it isn't fear, he tells himself. Maybe it isn't a bad feeling. It doesn't make sense that he would feel afraid, not surrounded by supporters and allies.

"This is amazing," he breathes, not even realizing that the words have left his mouth until the six foot tall man next to him turns around, blond wig, pink eyeshadow and all.

"We'll see," the man says, the deep rumble in his throat in direct contrast to the cosmetics on his face. "What we do today means nothing if Scalia has his way in D.C."

"Still," Blaine says, his eyes still wide. "This is amazing."

The man looks at him critically for a moment, before cracking a smile and shrugging. "Yeah," he finally agrees. "I guess it is."

There's a fury of sound that starts as soon as they begin walking. Blaine stays back for a few steps, uncertain if he wants to join. He's used to loud sounds and cheering crowds, but he's never been swallowed up in them like this. His heart is in his throat, and it's hard to walk out of the tempo. His feet pull him forward, drawn in by the crowd and the march, but there's a part of him that's still nervous, still uncertain, that pulls him back away. He scans the crowd, looking for Jon's distinctive red hair, or the purple streaks that Alice is currently sporting. He can't see them, of course, blocked off by the backs of the men and women in front of him.

Kurt would love this, he thinks dazedly.

Ten minutes of marching later, he's somehow gravitated into the middle of the back, pressed tight between other marchers. As a broad shoulder presses into his, he loses a grip on one of his pamphlets, and it flutters to the ground. Blaine abruptly remembers why they are there, and pushes his way to the edge of the crowd, muttering unheard "sorry's" the entire way.

There are people watching, he realizes with a bit of shock, when he finally breaks free. Most in mild interest, heads cocked and eyebrows raised. He moves over to them, flashes them broad smiles and hands out brochures. He explains to a short little lady the upcoming Supreme Court case, and ignores the pair of teenage boys making obsence gestures. A group of college-aged girls clap as they walk by, and two businessmen frown, clearly annoyed at having their route to work cordoned off.

Most of the onlookers are disinterested, however, used to the myriad parades and marches on Fifth Avenue, particularly as spring fades into summer. At first Blaine is hurt by this, surprised by the disinterest, and disheartened. Then again, he thinks, a moment later, maybe it's a good thing. After all, thousands of gay men, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people are marching down one of the main roads in New York City – isn't the normal New York self-absorption just a sign of acceptance?

He's beginning to enjoy himself, the sense of dread fading away, and he's nearly out of pamphlets when he spies the group of kids. They're young, probably just in high school, dressed in varsity jackets and douchebag sunglasses. Blaine's insides seize up at the sight of them, memories of Sadie Hawkins and prom flashing through his mind.

_It's cold and rainy, because that's how the nightmares always go, that's how the horror stories are scripted and the fairytales imagined. Two boys, standing alone in the high school parking lot, tips of their ears red, mouths twisted into frowns. They hadn't even danced, just stood by a punch bowl and swayed, the backs of their knuckles barely brushing every now and again._

_ Even so. Even so, eyes had been on them, and they'd been shoved, tripped, kicked. Hateful words whispered in their ears._

_ You don't belong._

_ Go home._

_ Fag._

_ A few girls who came by, their friends, to dance with them. The AV club who brought the punch over, the teachers who clapped them on the shoulders and asked if they were having a good time._

_ But mostly those eyes, filled with disgust or hate, or even just misunderstanding._

_ They've left early, hours before the dance is set to end, so they'll be waiting in the parking lot a while for Shane's dad to finally arrive and picked them up. Blaine shivers a little, and Shane shifts over so that their arms are pressed together. Blaine glances at his friend, out the corner of his eye. Courage, he thinks to himself. Isn't that what this whole night is about? Courage. He pulls his right hand out of his pocket, and loops it around his friend's waist, looping his thumb through the other boy's belt loop. He stares straight ahead, and he knows that the red from the tips of his ears is now staining his cheeks_.

This is different, he tells himself firmly. He's in New York, and his stereotyping of football players is no better than a homophobic putting him into a box. He moves toward them, determined to hand them a pamphlet. They're here watching, aren't they?

Before he can get more than a step, however, a hand reaches out from the crowd of marchers and encircles his bicep. Blaine turns, looks over his shoulder to see a young man, unobtrusive, maybe a few years older than himself. He's wearing plastic rimmed glasses and a suit.

"Don't," the man says.

"You can't judge a book by its cover," Blaine says resolutely, and pulls himself free.

_He's chasing his boyfriend down a long corridor, heart thundering in his chest. It's well lit, and they're still inside. Nobody had said a word to them at the dance, and he doesn't have bruises littering his body, but there's still something in him screaming to run run run._

_ He does, but this time he's not running away, he reminds himself, as he skitters around a corner and sees a flap of Kurt's kilt. No matter how scared he is, no matter how much he wants to leave, this night isn't about him. It never was._

_ He's never let his bullies push him to tears. They never saw him cry. It's not fair, he thinks, that Kurt's bullies were able to push him to that point_.

"Hi," Blaine says chipperly, as he walks up to the group of athletes. A thick, metal bar separates them, helping the police to block off the traffic to the parade route. It also effectively separates the spectators from the marchers, whether that's the intention or not. "Have you heard about the upcoming case in the Supreme Court? They're set to heard oral argument on it this afternoon, and it will be broadcast in audio at the Lincoln Theater. We're inviting everyone to come out and join us, to show their support."

"We're not gay," the lead boy says, and Blaine instantly feels his heart drop. The tone is flat – not aggressive or threatening, but flat and empty. He glances back nervousely, as the stream of marchers continues on.

"It's not just for gay people," Blaine continues, the words almost memorized by rote. "Allies are welcome, peope who have friends or family who are gay. The argument isn't really about homosexuality – it's about equality for all people, and about marriage being a fundamental right."

The boys just stare at him. They don't say anything or do anything, but when Blaine holds out a pamphlet, one of them takes it.

_The footsteps come from behind. Blaine stiffens, but doesn't turn around. He's ready for the hard, wet smack of an egg against his neck, a cup of punch poured over his head, maybe of piece of cake thrown against his back. He isn't prepared for the hand that settles on his shoulder and spins him around, putting him instantly off-balance._

_ He squints, the figure in front of him dark and hazy in the rain, silhouetted by the parking lot lights at his back._

_ "Hey," Blaine says dully. "We're just waiting for Shane's dad. Feel free to go back to the dance."_

_ "We'd like to," one of the boys says, his voice low and guttural. Blaine frowns, because he can't quite place it. It's familiar, but raspier than he's used to. One of the hockey players, he thinks. "But here's the thing. You and you little boyfriend came in and gayed the whole place up."_

_ "We're just friends," Shane protests._

_ There's no warning. In the movies there's always a warning, somebody makes a speech, something happens. There's no warning. One minute Blaine is standing there, trying to figure out why the voice is so familiar, and the next thing he knows he's on the ground, harsh pavement on his cheek, his jaw aching from a fist. He's ripped a hole in his jeans, he realizes._

_ He looks up in time to see the shoe coming at his face._

Blaine walks sideways for a moment, keeping his gaze on the football players. He's uneasy, even though he knows it's stupid. They're just kids, and there are police and witnesses all around. It's different than a write-in, anonymous prom king ballot, or an abandoned high school parking lot. It's different.

Still, there's something eerie in the way the high school boys are standing so quiet and still, in the way that they all have one hand before their backs. Blaine stops walking.

They all have one hand behind their backs.

He immediately thinks "gun" which is ridiculous, really, isn't it? Still, he wants to blend back into the middle of the crowd. But in the time he's spent talking to the boys, the march has moved on, and he's near the stragglers at the back. To reach the safety of the center, he'll have to turn his back on the boys.

He bites his lips. The police have moved on with the rest of the marchers, and apparently that's enough for the boys. They slink around the guardrail. Blaine opens his mouth, prepared to yell, to call out for help, to

He doesn't know what to say, though, and something freezes him to the spot,

_Fists, shoes, elbows, nails, laughing hulking shadows above him_

_ Kurt standing alone in the middle of a crowded room, a lost, scared look on his face, spotlight holding steady on him, screaming that he's different, unwanted, unloved_

_ Huddled in a small ball, knees to chest, face pressed in tightly to the top of his thighs. He's shiver in the cold rain, almost welcomes the blood on his face, because at least it's warm. . ._

_ He takes one step and freezes, hand outstretched. "Excuse me," he says, but his voice is hardly loud enough to be heard. It doesn't matter, Kurt spins around and all of the hateful, horrible people who wrote down his name disappear_

The lead boys arm moves, harsh and fast, too fast for Blaine to understand what it is, just "it's not a gun" before his right shoulder explodes into pain. He stumbles, lets out a short cry, and then there's a matching pain in his head and the world goes dark.

Xxx

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is the noise – or the lack of it. There's a thrumming through his body, that he soon recognizes as a car moving. He's stiff, and he can't move, and he's stuck staring at the ceiling. He tries to breathe, but there's something on his face, and he can't move, oh God, why can't he move.

He tries to turn his eyes, to look to the side and see what's going on, but the minute he glances in one direction a searing pain goes through his mind until everything is black again.

Xxx

It's pain, pain in his head, pain in his shoulder, a dull ache everywhere. He takes a breath, but it stutters, something clogging up his windpipe, his mouth, and he can't breath, he can't breathe, _he can't breathe_

Xxx

He's floating, or he feels like he is. There's a weightlessness, a cloudiness. He thinks this must be what cotton candy feels like every day.

It takes a moment to realize that the rushing that he hears, the babbling of the creek is actually voices, hushed and nervous. They're whispering, but loudly, people on an airplane who have to almost shout to be heard, but at the same time don't want to wake up the baby asleep in front of them.

Something is beeping.

"My baby, my poor little baby, we should never have let him go to New York."

"I told him. I told him again and again that his lifestyle would get him in trouble, would wind up with him dead in a ditch."

"Thank goodness for Jon, having the sense to call us on Blaine's cell phone."

"We're pulling him out of school, right, dear? Aren't we?"

"Should we let that girl in? Rachel. . .she's a nice girl. Remember when they went out?"

"Kurt's waiting."

Xxx

His head is still cloudy when he awakes again, but at least this time he knows that he isn't cotton candy. He tries to open his eyes, but there's something covering them, something binding them shut. His heart stutters, and somewhere beeping gets louder. What if he's blind? What if he can't see?

"_There are places I remember_

_ All my life, though some have changed_

_ Some forever, not for better_

_ Some have gone and some remain_

_ All these places have their moments_

_ With lovers and friends, I still recall_

_ Some are dead and some are living_

_ In my life I've loved them all_"

He has a heard injury. He can remember snippets of doctor's conversations. Putting a stent in, draining fluid, pulling off a portion of his skull to let his brain swell and bruise. He shudders, wondering if there's a hole in the top of his head, right now. Somebody is holding his hand, one gentle finger rubbing circles across the palm.

"_But of all these friends and lovers_

_ There is no one compares with you_

_ And these memories lost their meaning_

_ When I think of love as something new"_

He's in a hospital. He's in a hospital, and his head has been sawed open. Somewhere there are two people, angry and cold, talking about taking him away from. . .from something that is incredibly important. Next to him, someone is singing, voice pure and angelic. The hand pressed into his hand is filled with love.

There's a vague memory, somewhere in the haze of his head, telling him that his mother used to sing to him in bed, lullabies at night and happy ditties in the morning. Somehow he knows that it isn't his friend singing right now, however.

"_Though I know I'll never lose affection_

_ For people and things that went before_

_ I know I'll often stop and think about them_

_ In my life I love you more."_

He doesn't know exactly who he is, or where he is, outside of the hospital. He doesn't know who's holding his hand, or who is singing. He doesn't know anything, and there's a dull ache behind his eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing here, or why everything hurts, or why he feels so broken, but whoever is singing to him makes him feel safe. Loved.

"_In my life I love you more_

_ In my life I love you more_."

Xxx

The next time that Blaine wakes up, he knows who he is. There's a dull ache behind his eyes, but he can open them. He blinks three times, but nothing comes into focus. Even so, the yellow light of the hospital is better than the blackness he's been wandering in.

His parents are here, somewhere. He remembers hearing them.

He thinks that Kurt is here, though he can't be sure that the voice he'd heard wasn't part of a wonderful dream. Kurt's in Ohio, he reminds himself.

He raises his left hand, shakily, wincing as it pulls at his right shoulder. There's a thick bandage covering his head, the gauze harsh and unforgiving against his fingers. He pokes at it once, hisses and pulls back, not enjoying the flash of pain that sears through his skull. It's brief, but it's enough.

"Blaine?"

The voice is high and too feminine, not the one he wants to hear at all. It must have been a dream, then. He turns his head to the side, squints in an attempt to make the white oval come into focus. It doesn't work, though, and all he sees is a blur of lightness, surrounded by a wreath of dark hair. The voice, however, is unmistakeable, a little shrill, vibrant, filled with confidence.

"Hi, Rachel," he says, coughing twice and barely recognizing his own voice, so rough and harsh. "What are you doing here?"

"Kurt asked me to come," she says. She slides a little closer, and reaches out to take his hand. "I'm so, so sorry, Blaine."

"For what?" he asks, a little confused.

"For calling you a dirty stinking cheater," she says softly. "Kurt was right. You're not any of those things, and I was wrong for thinking that."

"It's okay," Blaine says. "I didn't even know you said any of that."

"I know," Rachel says. She sniffles, and raises a hand. She's crying, Blaine realizes. He tries to take her hand in his right, but it's bound to his side and he can't move the arm at all. He shifts a little, and manages to awkwardly pat her on the head with his left hand. He can faintly hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

"Hey," he says, wondering why he's the one soothing _her_. "It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

This just results in more sobs. The footsteps quicken, and the door to the room suddenly is thrown open. Blaine squints in the direction, but all he can tell is that a tall figure has entered the room. Probably a man, based on the breadth of shoulders, but he can't be sure.

"What's wrong? Oh my God, Rachel. . ."

Blaine still can't make out the specifics of the man's face, or outfit, but he _knows_ that voice.

_Kurt_.

He can't help but start to smile as the figure hurries toward him, practically throwing Rachel aside in his haste and worry. He falls to his knees, reaching out and grabbing Blaine's hands. He reaches one hand up – one blurry, fuzzy blob of a hand – and hovers it nervously over Blaine's head, before gently, painfully gently, brushing across Blaine's forehead.

"Oh," Blaine whispers. "There you are. I've been looking for you forever."

Kurt giggles a little, half a sob snuck in there somewhere. "You are such a cheeseball."

"You love it."

Kurt leans forward, brushes his lips lightly across Blaine's lips. "I do," he whispers. "I really, really do."

**A/N: Bam! No cliffhanger. Just a little bit of cheese. Except, you know, that Blaine is half –blind, Rachel and Finn have. . .issues. . .and who knows how Santana will deal with all of this. But outside of that. . .it's all good!**

**COMING SOON: Somebody proposes at the hospital, somebody forgives, and somebody leaves New York for good. Bum bum bum! Plus. . .a death, and summer plans might pull some of our favorites apart.**


	22. St Olaf's: Brittany

12/30/2010

**A/N: What? Am I alive? This story isn't abandoned? Crazy! Sorry for the long hiatus. . .school really kicked my butt this semester. Just a few chapters left, though, so maybe I'll finish this over the break! Merry Christmas!**

The apartment is cold when Brittany wakes up. Outside it looks nice – the sun is shining, and little shoots of green are appearing on the trees – but inside her apartment it's dark and cold. She pulls on a pair of slippers as she climbs out of bed.

"Santana?" she calls.

There's a little, muffled cry from the couch, and Brittany sighs. Santana's been moody for a week now – ever since the pregnancy test. Brittany knows that it's negative, because she asked her girlfriend, point blank. So maybe Santana had really wanted the baby?

Brittany heats up a pot of water and grabs one of the teabags from the cabinet over the sink. Santana's grandma taught her how to make tea just the way the other girl likes it. She hums gently and bounces as she waits for the water to heat. There's a moment, when she glances over at the fridge and sees the unopened envelope, but she leaves it. Her girlfriend is upset, and everything else can wait until later.

Santana sits up when Brittany joins her, reaches out and takes the cup of tea with a murmured "_Gracias_" and sips at it. Brittany likes to think that a little color comes back into the other girl's cheeks. She pats Santana on the head, thick, inky hair coiling around her fingers.

"I have to go to work," she says, because it's true, and she's always supposed to speak the truth. The bills are piling up, and even though Brittany doesn't always understand what they mean, she knows that it's money that has to be paid. Santana nods her head.

It's an easy routine that Brittany has down. She goes into the bathroom, and shoots a quick text to Kurt, asking what she should wear. She sheds her clothing, turns on the shower, and brushes her teeth. The water is still kind of cold when she steps into it, but it's warmer than the ear, so she quickly shampoos her hair and steps out. She picks up her phone and. . .

It's blank. There's no message in her inbox, telling her what to wear. She stares at it for a moment. It's been years since she's had to go without Kurt's fashion advice – ever since junior year, when the calendar had confused her and she'd gone to school in shorts and a tank top in the middle of an Ohio winter. She shakes her head. She can probably wear the same clothes she wore the day before. If they were okay for a Sunday, they're probably okay for a Monday.

Santana is still on the couch when she goes to leave for work, cuddled up in her _abuela's_ afghan and shuddering a little. Brittany feels guilty leaving, but there are the bills, and the envelope on the fridge, and she's beginning to worry that Kurt still hasn't responded to her text.

She waits until she's left the apartment to raise the phone to her ear and press the 3 button. If Kurt isn't picking up, then Blaine will know why. Blaine always knows everything, like what subway line to take, and how much change goes into a dollar, and why the sky is blue. The phone rings once, twice, and then there's a breathy exclamation and a voice that is too high pitched.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Kurt!" Brittany is a little surprised, but overall it makes sense that Kurt is the one answering the phone – that's who she really wants to talk to, and Blaine probably just decided to save time. "I was getting dressed this morning, but you didn't tell me what to wear."

"Britt, I'm so sorry, my phone died and"

"But it was okay, I just put on what I was wearing yesterday. Sunday clothes can be Monday clothes, right?"

"Britt, Britt," Kurt is breathless and talking fast, and Brittany finally slows down to hear what he's saying. "Britt, I'm really sorry, but I can't talk right now."

She cocks her head, stops in the middle of the sidewalk. A heavyset woman in a puffy coat almost plows her over, but that's okay. This is so insane, so unheard of, that Brittany needs a moment to mull it over.

Kurt loves to talk. Kurt _always_ has time to talk. He turns his phone off a full twenty minutes before class, because if he doesn't, he'll talk right through. Especially about fashion.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice high and fluting. She's a few blocks away from work, still, and she's going to be late. There's a harsh, drawn-in breath from the other side of the line.

"It's Blaine," he says, finally. "He's in the hospital."

"Did you bring him flowers?" Brittany asks, her mind flitting back to when her younger sister had been in the hospital with a broken leg, and everybody had brought her flowers, balloons, and a ginormous teddy bear that Brittany had been a little jealous of. "He'll like it there. The nurses are so nice, and they bring you lots of jell-o." She knows that Blaine likes jell-o : even the green kind, which _nobody_ likes.

"Yeah," Kurt says. There's a long pause, and Britt begins to wonder if maybe Kurt hung up on her, but the phone isn't buzzing in her ear. Then there's a funny sound from the other end, like a bubble burst, but louder. "He won't wake up," Kurt finally says. "There are moments when I think. . .when maybe. . .but he won't wake up."

"Like sleeping beauty?"

"Yes. Only this is real, Brittany, it's not a fairytale."

"Well, if he won't wake up like sleeping beauty, then you should go give him a kiss. True love's kiss can fix anything."  
>"Not this," Kurt says. "But thank you. If you. . .if you want to come by and visit, we're at St. Olaf's."<p>

"Okay," Brittany says agreeably, happy to have a destination for after work that isn't her cold, sad apartment. "I'll bring a balloon."

Xxx

Brittany feels almost at home when she enters the hospital. She knows that lots of people don't like them – Kurt _hates_ them, and she can still remember how sad he got was his dad was in the hospital, way back in high school. She knows that sometimes people die, or that people only go here when they're sick, but it's still nice, the way that there are duckies on people's pajamas, and balloons and flowers, and always lots of people smiling. Sometime they're crying, too, but they're together, not locked up in a little apartment in Tribeca.

She clutches her balloon even tighter (it says "It's a Boy!" because she knows that Blaine's a boy and wouldn't want the My Little Pony One). People keep trying to send her to the maternity ward, no matter how many times she explains to them that her friend is sleeping beauty. Eventually she gives up and pulls out her phone.

"Hello? Brittany?" Kurt sounds much happier this time, so she assumes that Blaine has finally gotten some flowers or balloons. "Wait. Don't move a muscle. I'll come get you."

It's really hard not to move a muscle. Brittany feels guilty, but she does blink a few times.

And then Kurt is there, strutting through the halls, the heels on his shoes making a sharp rat-a-tat on the hallway. He walks straight up to her, a massive smile on his face, and throws his arms around her. Brittany makes sure that she keeps a firm grip on her balloon so that it doesn't float away.

Kurt smells like fluoride and toothpaste and cotton, which is a little strange, since normally he smells like liquid bottles of unicorn fabulousness. Brittany shrugs it off, and hugs him back. Hugging boys is different than hugging Santana. The lines of Kurt's body are firmer, harsher, but he's somehow softer, too, willing to melt into her in a way that her girlfriend never, ever does.

"He woke up," Kurt murmurs into her hair. She tilts her head a little so that he doesn't miss when he continues to whisper. "Oh my God, Brittany, he woke up."

"Well, of course he did. All you had to do was kiss him."

Kurt pulls back and blinks at her. Brittany sighs. Sometimes she really doesn't see why she has to explain everything so much. "True love's kiss, Kurt."

"Right," he says, reaching out and taking her hand. "Do you want to see him? Did you get that balloon for him? It's very. . .erm. . .nice."

"Thank you," she says. "It's because Blaine's a boy."

They walk in the opposite direction that the nurses had been trying to make Brittany go. She wants a little bit to stick her tongue out at all the nurses who had tried to send her the wrong way, but doesn't. They were just trying to help. She puts her hand into Kurt's – it's still as baby soft as when she was younger – and follows him down the hallway.

And then up some stairs.

Then down some hallways.

Then in an elevator.

And then finally, _finally_ they are standing outside of a room, Kurt beaming brightly. Brittany pokes her head in. Blaine is reclined on a bed, his eyes closed, an IV line hooked up to his arm. A large, white bandage covers his head, and there are dark circles beneath his eyes. Brittany frowns.

"Did somebody new cast a spell on him?"

"Excuse me?"

It's only then that Brittany notices the other people in the room: a tall, severe looking man, with thick eyebrows and a frown on his face. He doesn't have a mustache, though, so she's pretty sure he's not a bad man. Next to him is a short little woman with clouds of spun cotton black hair and green eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, this is Brittany," Kurt introduces. "Britt, these are Blaine's parents."

She frowns, trying to place the faces, but she doesn't remember ever having been to Blaine's house, and she doesn't remember them ever being at any of the New Directions performances. Kurt must have made a mistake, she realizes, and pats her friend absently on the head. She won't tell him, though, because he looks absolutely exhausted, and he's only wearing a t-shirt. . .no layers.

"Hello," she says serenely. "Somebody should give Blaine a kiss so he can wake up." She frowns, and looks between the three people. "Probably Kurt," she says finally. The man looks shocked, but the woman smiles a little.

On the bed, Blaine shifts a little, and smacks his lips. Everyone turns to look at him. Brittany walks forward and ties her balloon to the foot of the bed, so that he'll see it as soon as he wakes up.

"We should probably let him rest," Kurt says. "But come on. Finn and Rachel are in the cafeteria."

"Finn?" Brittany instantly perks up. Finn is one of her favorite people – they'd spent hours at one of Kurt's themed parties sneaking chocolate balls out of the kitchen. She'd tried to feed them to the gnomes in the garden, but Finn kept eating them on the way.

Kurt laughs again, sounding as happy as he had before the holidays – before Santana got sad, too – and takes her hand. She follows happily, waving once more at the two strangers in Blaine's room.

They walk down a long hallway, filled with worried looking people and smiling nurses – Brittany likes this hospital, where people wave at her as she walks by, and where a little boy with his arm in a swing falls into step with them. It's only two hallways before she can hear a familiar voice.

"But Finn, it's New York City – how can it not enrapture your soul and capture all your romantic flights of fancy?"

"It's just a city. But Rachel –"

"The buildings, the lights, the _energy_. Can't you just feel it?"

"No, but Rachel. . ."

"You're too much for Ohio, Finn. You're too talented, too. . .too. . ."

"Rachel, listen."

They turn the corner into the cafeteria. It's mostly empty, a pair of older men sitting in a corner with steaming cups of coffee in sad paper cups, and bemused smiles on their faces, and then Rachel, sitting at a center table, Finn kneeling in front of her. Kurt's eyes widen and his mouth drops, but Brittany just walks forward. The ground here is probably vey clean, but her mother taught her that it's more polite to sit on a chair. Dogs sit on the floor – people (and Lord Tubbington, of course) – sit in chairs.

Before she reaches the table, however, Finn pulls something out of his back pocket and presents it to Rachel. Her hands flutter up to her mouth, and she starts making strange little "ooh" sounds. Britt pauses in confusion.

"Finn. . .I. . .I. . .what is this?"

"Rachel Berry," Finn says, serious and solemn. "You are a star, and New York City is the place where you're supposed to shine. You've always known that. . .and I guess that I always knew that, too."

"But. . ."

"I like Ohio, Rachel, I really do. I like working at Kurt's dad's shop, and I'm good at it. But. . .I'll be good at working on cars anywhere. And there are a ton of taxis in New York, and I'm pretty sure that they need their brakes changed, and oil filtered, and tune-ups."

"Finn." Rachel is a strange shade of white. Brittany decides to walk forward again and check her temperature, but Kurt has settled his hand on her shoulder, now, and is gently squeezing, keeping her from walking forward.

"Rachel, I love you," Finn says. "This year apart has been _hell_, and it's not because I don't have a girlfriend, and it's not because I'm stuck in Ohio, and it's not because I've become a Lima loser. It's because I'm not with _you_."

"Oh, a moving proposal," Kurt gasps, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. "It's just so. . .so. . .dramatic and beautiful!"

"Rachel, I want you to marry me," Finn says, and Brittany isn't sure who's gasp is louder, Rachel's, as she opens the box, or Kurt from right behind her. "Maybe not right away. I know that we're young. But we've been together since sophomore year. . .kind of. . .and I know that you're the one. So I'm going to move to the city. Maybe to, like, Brooklyn, or something, and I'll find a mechanic's shop and. . .and we'll make it work, Rachel."

"We'll get it right," she says softly, reaching down and pulling out the ring. It kind of looks like the promise ring Santana got Brittany during senior year of high school, just a simple silver band with a tiny, tiny stone in the middle. She absently fingers it on her own finger, as Rachel slips hers on.

"Okay," Rachel says, her lower lip trembling a little. "I mean. . .yes. Yes."

Finn surges forward to grab her up in a hug, and Brittany begins clapping.

"Fantastic!" Kurt shouts, his voice high and trilling. "Oh, Finn Hudson, you have outdone yourself. That was truly amazing!"

It was like a slow motion movie, the way that Finn and Rachel both turned around at the same time, their eyes wide and shocked.

"You saw all of that?" Rachel asked. Brittany couldn't tell from her voice or face what she thought of it. Rachel didn't seem to know, either, cocking her head and furrowing her brow. After a moment, however, the clouds lifted from her face and she leapt to her feet, a broad smile on her face. "Well, that works perfectly! You _have_ to be my maid of honor, Kurt, you just have to! And we can plan the wedding together, and it will be the event of the century!"

"Err. . ." Finn comes up, a bit more discreetly, to put his hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Don't. . .um. . .don't tell your Dad, or my Mom, okay. I kind of think. . .I think I should tell them myself."

Kurt considers, and then shrugs. "I suppose that it is your business," he agrees, before lifting one finger and waving it menacingly in front of Finn's face. "But don't take too long. You do _not_ get to deprive me of all the joyous wedding planning because you're afraid that your mother is going to ground you."

"I'm not. . .that's not. . ."

Brittany turns to follow them as they head out of the cafeteria – back to see Blaine, she thinks, though she's not entirely certain. As they turn the corner, however, she pauses for a moment. They're all back together now – Rachel and Finn, Kurt and Blaine, even if Blaine is still sleeping. . .she's there. It's just Santana who's missing. Brittany bites her lip, and pulls out her phone.

She dials, but nobody picks up, until finally she hears the voicemail message: "Hey, Bitch, Lopez on the line. I'm not here, but leave a _mensaje_ and if I like you, I'll call you back." She sighs and hangs up, before typing in a quick message.

_**I love you. I'm at the hospital, because Blaine's sleeping. Finn and Rachel got married. Kurt isn't wearing a sweater. I love you.**_

Four seconds later, the phone rings.

"Brittany, are you high? What are you _talking _about?"

So Brittany explains what had happened all day, from not knowing what to wear, to buying the balloon, to meeting the doppelgangers who are pretending to be Blaine's parents. Santana doesn't speak the whole time, though when she gets to the proposal, the other girl gasps out a "midget and gigantor! Their kids will have multiple height disorder!" When she finishes, there's a long pause, but Brittany can hear Santana breathing, so she doesn't hang up.

"Blaine is. . .is he okay?"

"I think so," she says. "I think he's Sleeping Beauty, and Kurt just needs to give him true love's kiss to wake him up again. But he might be Rip Van Winkle, beause all of his hair fell out, so he's wearing a white band aid hat."

"This is my fault," Santana whispers.

"No," Brittany says fiercely. "No, it's not your fault. If you did something bad, Santana, you just have to say sorry. We're your family, and we love you."

"What I did ruined _everything_."

"No, it didn't," Brittany insists. "Rachel and Finn are in love, and Kurt and Blaine are in love, and the two people in his room are in love, and you and me. . .we're in love, too. If you have love, you can make it through anything."

There's a choking sound on the other line, and Brittany thinks that her girlfriend is crying. She puts on her hat to walk out the door, even though it means being rude and not saying hello to Blaine.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" Santana asks finally.

"You loved me," Brittany says. "That's all I want."

"Can I. . .do you think they'd want me to come down?"

Brittany walks down the final few steps to Blaine's room, and peers in, to where all of the people are gathered around the bed, speaking in hushed voices. Blaine's eyes are open now, and he spots her over the top of Kurt's head, raising one, shaking hand in greeting.

"Yes," Brittany says. "Please come down, Santana."

**A/N: Aww, cheese, fluff, and everyone coming together again. Maybe I'm just in the holiday spirit. . .:)**

**COMING SOON: Santana reemerges from her dark cave of angst, somebody decides to leave New York for good, somebody moves **_**to**_** New York, and summer plans may pull people apart after all. **


	23. Lima and New York: Carole

12/30/2010

**A/N: Happy New Year! Also. . .I apologize for this chapter. It just kept going and going, and was written in three different sittings, so I'm sure it's not the best. But. . .Carole! And lots of Hudmelly goodness. Tons of Santana next chapter, but not a lot here, sorry!**

Carole is ecstatic that it's spring break. She's stocked up the fridge with all of Kurt's favorite foods (and Blaine's too, since she's sure the other boy will be over almost nonstop) and cleaned every inch of the house. Burt has been putting in extra hours at the garage so he can take some time off, and even Finn seems excited, looking disappointed whenever he runs downstairs and doesn't see his stepbrother sitting at a counter.

It's a little surprising when they pick Kurt up at the airport, and without any change in expression he informs them that the Anderson's are on a cruise, and Blaine has decided to remain in New York. Something seems a little off, to Carole, but when she asks Burt he just shrugs and claps a meaty hand on his son's shoulder. Finn surges forward to bear hug Kurt, lifting the smaller boy off his feet and twirling him around. Carole just smiles and opens her arms.

"Hey there," she says, when Kurt steps forward and engulfs her. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's great!" Kurt enthuses, but she thinks that she sees something brittle behind his eyes, something that reminds her of when she first moved in.

Burt takes one bag and Finn takes the other (I don't have enough clothes for one suitcase, why do you need two?") They drive home.

Dinner that night is a vegetarian lasagna, and Kurt doesn't stop complimenting it the entire time. His phone dings multiple times, but he doesn't once answer it, and Burt is smiling proudly from his end of the table. Kurt has just finished regaling them with the latest stunt from his roommate, when Finn interrupts.

"So. . .how's Rachel?"

There's no finesse, and Carole can't help but smile fondly at her son, who is staring down at his pasta, twirling around the chunks of spinach that he still refuses to eat.

"She's good," Kurt says. "She'll be home in. . .I think two weeks, is when Julliard has their spring break."

"That'll be nice," Burt says. Everyone turns to look at him, and he shrugs, a little uncomfortably, the tips of his ear tinged red. "What? Girl's loud, but she's got a good heart. I kind of miss her."

"Yeah," Finn says, morosely stabbing a carrot. "Me, too."

It's enough to cast a pall over the evening, until Carole stands up and chipperly announces that she's made a cream puff dessert (barely any butter, sugar free jello, and cool whip – only 15 calories a piece!). The idea of dessert perks Finn right up, and gives Burt and Kurt a chance to joust good-naturedly over the dessert.

She finally gets time alone with her stepson as they're doing dishes, while Finn and Burt camp out on the couch. She steals a few glances at him. He isn't singing, which is unusual for him, though at least he's humming a little in the back of his throat, so she knows that nothing catastrophic has happened. She's always prided herself a little on her intuition, so she decides to take a stab at what's bothering him.

"So. . .school is good," she says, making a statement instead of a question.

"You know, it really is," Kurt rpelies, speaking in that curiously adult voice that he sometimes uses. "It was rough going at the beginning, but I really feel like I've gotten it better figured out now. Just. . .it turns out that where I always thought I belonged isn't actually where I really belong."

Carole files that away to consider later. Instead, she just says "that's great, hon!" Kurt hands her another dinner plate, this one a little sudsier than she likes it, but without a word she takes it and begins to dry. "And Blaine. . .he's doing well?"

"Blaine is. . ." Kurt sighs. "He's doing good. He's marching in some big educational thing tomorrow, to let people know about the Supreme Court case. He's. . .he's Blaine, you know? Dapper, devilishly handsome, and too charming for his own good."

Carole puts down the plate and stares at her stepson. He's not acting the way he usually does when he talks about his boyfriend, all fluttery hands, darting eyes, and half-contained smiles. She peers at him out the corner of her eyes as he hands her another plate.

"And the two of you. . ."

He sighs, that overly dramatic sigh that he shares with Finn's girlfriend. "We're. . .in a rough patch," he admits. "But we'll get through it. We just needed that little bit of time apart, you know?"

"It's your first relationship," Carole says. "You're still figuring things out."

Kurt looks at her for a long moment, his eyes considering, before finally his lip quirks up in that familiar half smile. "No," he says, a little of the giggle coming back into his voice. "He's my only. There's not going to be anyone else after him."

He hands her the last glass and then flounces off to join his father and step brother in the living room. Carole just stares after him for a moment, slightly shocked. There's a part of her that's terrified for Kurt – unlike Finn, who dated Quinn, Rachel, some girl named Santana, Rachel again, Quinn again, and finally Rachel again – Kurt's never dated anyone but Blaine. Unlike Finn, who isn't quite smart enough to understand heartache (she loves her son dearly, but really, is it so hard to tell the difference between shaving cream and air freshener?), Kurt will be devastated if they do break up. But then again. . .Blaine is a nice boy. And they are good together – compromising with a maturity that a number of Carole's own friends don't possess.

She begins putting the dishes away, peering occasionally in the room at her boy. Finn is leaning forward, engaged in the tv, while Burt is dividing his attention between the game and his newly arrived son. And Kurt. . .Kurt is trying to adjust the décor, fix Blaine's hair, correct a twisted lapel, etc.

It's good to have everyone home again.

Xxx

Burt is out in the garage with Kurt, tinkering with a car, when Carole hears the crash from the storage room. She's heard enough loud noises coming from Finn's attempt to clean that she isn't terribly worried. She checks the cooking turkey before heading down the hallway. When she turns in to the storage room, she finds her son sprawled on the ground, half surrounded by overturned boxes.

"Oh, Finn," she sighs. He looks up at her, that same guilty expression on his face since he wore at two years old, when she caught him with the shattered remains of a cookie jar. "What are you looking for?"

"The. . .um. . .the boxes that you packed up with everything from Dad," he says. She lifts one eyebrow and points to a whole row of boxes that say "Rusty." Finn shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Not Dad's stuff, the. . .the stuff that you had that was _yours_, but you got rid of when you married Burt. The afghan that you knit him, and the jewelry that he gave you, and. . ."

Finn continues mumbling, but Carole's mind shut off the minute that he says "jewelry." There's no reason that Finn would want any of that old stuff. . .except for one piece of jewelry that she'd always told him she would give him whenever he was ready to propose to a girl. Her heart stops a little.

"Finn. . ." she says, interrupting him, a warning tone in her voice. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

His shoulders slump, and he kind of leans back. "Mom. . ." he says, and then cuts himself off, trying again. "Mom, I'm all grown up now. And I think that if you really want me to have that ring. . .I should have it. I'm not going to give ti to anyone right now. . .Rachel's in New York, and I'm here, but. . ."

She stares at him, her too-tall son, covered in boxes, only wearing one shoe, in a ratty old tee shirt. There have been a thousand times over the last few years when she's looked at him and thought "my boy is a man", but this is the first time that he's said it.

And he's right. He's dropped out of college when it wasn't for him, ignoring the nay sayers and all the people who told him he'd amount to nothing. He took a break-up well, has supported his family. . .he's finally gotten it all right.

"Okay," she says, her voice a little choked. Finn cocks his head looking at her, a little confused, looking like a lost puppy. "Come on, Finn."

He scrambles to his knees and follows after her, kicking a box aside in his hurry. She bites back the reprimand to pick things up. He can do it in a bit, after they have a moment, but for right now she'll let it be.

He follows her up the stairs, feet thudding into them. Around the corner and into her room with Burt. Finn pauses at the door before following her in, his pace slowing slightly. Carole walks to her jewelry box and opens it. There are three trays, two of which are completely stuffed full with jewelry – mostly cheap, plastic baubles that she's picked up because they're pretty, a few vintage pieces that Kurt's given her, and a string of pearls from Burt for their first anniversary. But the bottom tray is nearly empty, just a necklace and earring set and a single, simple diamond ring. She pulls it out.

"Your dad gave this to me when I was seventeen," she says. She peers at it, the bright, sparkling diamond, the thousand memories reflected in its facets. "He was only nineteen, and he knew that he'd be heading off to war. He promised me that he'd be with me always. . ." she looks up at her son, at the brown eyes that remind her daily of his father, the tall build, the broad shoulders. Her vision is blurring and she can't believe that she's crying over this.

"He gave me you," she says, as she presses the ring into Finn's hand and closes his fingers around it. "And when you're ready. . .when you _know_, I want you to give this to the right girl. Don't jus throw it away."

"I won't," Finn says, and even his voice is catching a little. "I know how much this means. Thank you."

"Okay," Carole says. She reaches out her arms and Finn collapses into them, and even though he's mostly grown, it's not so different from when he was sixteen and thought that his girlfriend was pregnant. She just holds him for a long moment, until his stomach growls and she can't help but giggle. "All right," she says. "Let's go get your father and brother and have some lunch."

She calls Burt and Kurt in, and they immediately head to the bathroom to clean up. Finn flicks on the tv, and Carole asks him to turn it to the news as she begins assembling sandwiches.

"_Informational march turned ugly in New York City, coming up next."_

Carole drops her knife, and Finn leans forward as the visual on the screwwn shoes an ambulance, carting away a man with familiar, curly dark hair. Finn turns to stare at her, slack-jawed and disbelieving. "Mom, was that. . ."

She glances toward the back bathroom, where she can hear Kurt's cheerful humming over the running of water. She doesn't know if she should tell Finn to turn the tv off or leave it on. It might not be Blaine, it might not. . .it's on the news in Lima, which means that it happened hours ago, and they haven't heard anything. The Andersons haven't called to let them know, _Blaine_ hasn't called and maybe. . .

She mechanically continues to chop at carrots, eyes still glued to the screen as it flows through an acne medication commercial, to one for Target, and finally to one for a new television show before the news logo is finally swirling its way across the screen.

"Hey, what are you. . ." Kurt's voice trails off, no doubt recognizing the way that both Finn and Carole's eyes are glued to the screen. Carole turns to look at him, noticing the way that he turns a little to the side, the way his eyes widen just a tad, the way the takes a half stumble forward.

"_Today, a peaceful, educational march. In a day when most things went all right – pamphlets handed out, support gained, and information shared about the upcoming Supreme Court Case that will determine whether laws against gay marriage violate equal protection, what was peaceful became violent for at least one marcher. IN a seeming attack of homophobia, one young man, 19 year old Blaine Anderson—_"

Nobody catches the rest because Kurt is gasping, chest heaving, and although he is pulling in sharp, harsh gasps, he doesn't seem to be getting any oxygen. Finn lurches off the couch, all long limbs and awkward angles, but it's Burt who catches his son as he falls, ankles trembling.

"They don't. . .his parents. . ." Kurt is choking out short words, his fingers scrambling for a phone. Carole, meanwhile, has gone into operational mode, getting out her phone book and dialing the emergency number for the Andersons. They're on a cruise, she remembers, and she'll have to call the central corporation to get news to them, and then she'll have to book a flight to New York, because Kurt will want to head out there immediately, and then she'll have to find a sub for herself at work, and for Burt, because Blaine is their family, too, and if he's hurt, they have to be there. . .

Burt is still patting Kurt's back when Finn rushes out of the room. Carole leaves a message with the cruise company, and by the time she hangs up, Finn is back in the living room, a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. "Come on, Kurt," he says. "I packed your stuff. We're going to the airport."

It's a mark of how distraught Kurt is that he doesn't even protest that Finn packed his clothing – Finn, who has a tendency to mismatch socks, no matter that Carole folds them together. He just takes the duffel bag and walks out the front door. Burt looks like he's about to disagree, but she grabs him by the sleeve.

"We'll follow as soon as I book us a flight and a hotel room," she tells him. "After I call in for personal time and you figure out someone to leave the garage with."

"I'm just. . .worried," he finally grounds out, still staring at the door, even though it's shut, and the sound of the engine can be heard.

"About Blaine?"

"No," Burt admits, his lips quirking a little. "That kid's got more spunk in one finger than most kids in their whole bodies. If anyone can pull through this hey can."

"Then what. . ."

"He's so young," Burt finally says. "God, Carole, those kids are nineteen. Look at Kurt. He's so. . .he's so in love."

Carole forces out a smile, ignoring the pit in her stomach – yes, Kurt's very much in love, but he's sensible and clever, and so, for that matter, is Blaine. Finn, on the other hand, is also still very much in love, but he's not nearly as sensible, and isn't clever, and though Rachel is smart as a whip she's overly dramatic and. . .and. . .

She'll be in New York. And Finn has a ring.

"On second thought," Carole says, "why don't we make those calls en route to the airport?"

xxx

It turns out that they miss the flight that Finn and Kurt are on, and won't be able to catch another one until late the next day. Carole wants to stay in the airport and try for a stand-by (visions of Finn proposing to that Berry girl won't stop floating through her head, now that they're _both in New York_) but Burt insists that they return home. She shoots a quick text to Finn when they're in the car again, and growls in frustration when she hears the familiar "bleep" of his phone from the back seat of the car. Of course.

Kurt, meanwhile, proves to be a constant source of updates.

_Just arrived. Safe and sound. In a taxi to the airport._

Burt glances up from his food. "No phones at the table dear, remember?"

"Just texting your son," Carole says flippantly. "He's getting a new tattoo."

"What?" Burt begins to rage, before realizing the complete ridiculousness of that comment and sitting back down with a chuckle.

Again, as they're brushing their teeth, a quick text followed almost simultaneously by the home phone number ringing.

_At the hospital._

"Hello?"

"C-Carole?" Kurt's voice is doing that funny fluttery thing that happens whenever he's trying desperately not to cry. She suddenly wishes that his father wasn't in the shower a thte moment.

"Yes. Honey, is everything okay?"

"I don't. . .I don't know. Is Dad there?"

"He's in the shower, sweetie, he'll be out in a minute."

"Oh," Kurt sniffles on the other end. "Okay." She hears a muffled voice in the backround. "In a second, Finn," Kurt huffs. "Well. We're at the hospital?"

"Did they let you in to see Blaine?"

"Yeah it. . .it took a really long time, but then the Andersons' got here and they let us in."

There's a long pause. Carole just waits. Kurt isn't the type of person that she could push or prod, not like Finn. If he wants to talk to her, she just has to wait. Sure enough, a second later. . .

"He won't wake up, Carole. One doctor says that's a good thing – he's just healing – but the other one says that. . .that the longer he stays unconscious, the more likely that there's brain damage or that he won't. . .he won't wake up at all."

Carole knows what to say to that – she's dealt with dozens of patients in similar situations. She wishes that there were something more she could say, to a boy that she knows, to a boy that she _loves_, but there's really only response. "You just have to have faith."

She hears him scoff, and barrels on before he ignores her entirely. "Not in God, if you don't believe in that. . .but have faith in Blaine. Doesn't he deserve that?"

Kurt doesn't respond to a minute, and when he does, it's with a simple, subdued "Finn wants to talk to you. When Dad gets back can you. . ."

"Of course."

There's a slight shuffling on the other end, before Finn's bright "Hi, Mom! Did I leave my phone in the car?"

"Don't you dare propose to Rachel," Carole says. "You are both too young. And yes, you left your phone."

"Sweet! Can you bring it with when you get here? And Kurt's charger?"

"Finn Seamus Hudson, did you listen to a word that I said to you?"

"Thanks mom, you're the best!"

Obviously not.

Xxx

Something is going on. Carole peers curiously at the Andersons – they are as charming and aloof as ever, though Blaine's mother alternates between being the perfect society wife and breaking into tears over the horrors that the dastardly city has brought. Mr. Anderson just reads the newspaper. She turns her gaze to Kurt, but he's staring steadfastly at Blaine, clutching his boyfriend's hand in his own, and gently rubbing over the knuckles with his thumb. There's a small smirk on his face, though. He knows something.

Blaine, meanwhile. . .Blaine has his eyes open, a slight crease in his forehead (he probably needs another dose of morphine, but is too proud to ask). His free hand is lightly knotted into the bedsheets.

"But the march went okay?" he asks, eyes scanning Kurt's face. Carole frowns, and steps a little closer to the bed. There's something a little. . .off. . .about Blaine's gaze, how it spends a little too much time on the hairline, settles a little to the left. There's too much blinking.

"If you include only braining one person with a brick okay, then it went splendidly," Kurt says drolly.

"Good, good," Blaine says, licking his lips absently. "And the vote?"

Kurt pauses for a moment. "Honestly, I don't know," he admits.

"You mean the Supreme Court decision?" Mr. Anderson asks from the door. "They only heard oral argument, son. The opinion won't be out for at least three months."

"Oh," Blaine says, and bites his lower lip. He still seems a little confused, but Carole isn't concerned about the lingering effects of medication – just about the clear trouble that he's having focusing his eyes. And the fact that Kurt _clearly_ knows something and isn't saying. She clears her throat.

"Kurt. Honey. Blaine looks a little tired. Why don't we give him a rest? Show me where the coffee is?"

Kurt nods, presses a light kiss to Blaine's forehead, and then follows her out. As soon as the door closes she turns on him.

"All right, bub, spill."

Kurt lasts for approximately five seconds before his face lights up into the world's biggest smile. "Okay, well, I promised Finn that I wouldn't tell you, but. . .he proposed to Rachel." He claps his hands and begins jumping up and down. "Looks like we'll be planning another Hudmel wedding!"

Carole's heart sinks to the bottom of her stomach. Before she has the chance to follow the question up, however, there's the sound of footsteps. Turning around, she sees her giant doofus of a husband walking down the hallway, hand in hand with Ms. Rachel Berry. The minute he sees her, her son's eyes widen, and he looks like he's about to turn and run the other direction. She lifts one hand and points at him.

"Stop right there," she orders.

"Uh, hi, Mom," Finn mutters a little nervously. Rachel, meanwhile, beams, and runs forward to engulf Carole in the warmest, most enthusiastic hug she's ever felt.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" Rachel gushes. "Finn was so darling, so charming, you would have been so proud! And he told me that this ring was yours, from his Dad, and I'm so touched that you respect and honor me with this heirloom. This marriage means _everything_. You know that Finn and I are soulmates, obviously – you've heard of the red string of fate, from the Chinese doctors, of course – I've always felt that there was just asuch a string connecting us. No matter what obstacles are in our way, we always find our ways back to one another. And then, to be part of your family – you now that Kurt is my very best gay – no offense to Blaine, of course, he's delightful as well, and I truly feel that he embodies the male form of me – but Kurt and I. . .we've weathered so much together. And of course I've always respected Burt – I simply cannot wait for the next election so that I can vote for him."

Rachel pauses to take a breath. Carole kind of feels like she needs one, too. Finn and Rachel only broke up a month and a half ago, but with the kids off at college she hasn't actually spent time with Rachel since the summer. When Rachel pulls back from the hug, enough to look her in the face, she's surprised to see tears welling in the other girls' eyes.

"But I'm also so, so happy that I'll back a part of _your_ family. I've always wanted a mom, and you. . ." Rachel can't finish the sentence, and dives in for another hug. Uncertainly, Carole hugs her back.

Over the girls' shoulder, she sees her son, still blushing and looking shame-faced, but also grinning with the biggest grin ever. Kurt on the other hand, lets a smile slip away from his face, and gasps. She turns a little, and sees another pair have approached the door. She hadn't noticed, so caught up with Rachel's histrionics. She recognizes them vaguely – two other girls who had been in the Glee Club, though neither had been good friends with either Finn or Kurt, or spent much time at the house. The one – Santana – she thinks Finn dated for a while.

"Is this a bad time?" Santana asks uncertainly.

"What do you want here, Satan?" Kurt sneers. Carole is even more confused now – it's not like Kurt to be so. . .well. . .curt, and Finn is now the one looking confused.

"Santana has something she wants to say to all of you," the blond says seriously. "Kurt, did you kiss Blaine awake so we can talk to him?"

Kurt's eyes narrow, but he nods. "Sure," he says. "We can go in."

The three of them file in, Rachel finally disengaging from the hug so she can follow as well. Carole catches Finn's arm before he enters Blaine's room. "You are _not_ off the hook, mister," she says severely. Still, she can't quite maintain the stern façade. "But I am very, _very_ happy for you."

**A/N: Oh, Carole. I love how much you love your boys. And really. . .that's all I have to say about that.**

**COMING SOON: Santana reemerges from her dark cave of angst, somebody decides to leave New York for good, somebody moves **_**to**_** New York, and summer plans may pull people apart after all. (Hahaha. . .none of that happened in this chapter. But it will in the next one, promise!)**


	24. Staten Island Yankees: Kurt

12/30/2010

**A/N: Last chapter! Whaaaat! Okay, admittedly, I had three more chappies plotted out, but this story hasn't been updated in forever and a day, and I kind of just want to finish it. Besides, the last chapters were going to be so depressing – Burt was going to die, and Santana and Brittany were going to break up. . .no good. So anyway, last chapter, enjoy, and sorry for the wait!**

It smells like rotten fish and old garbage, and not in the way that all of New York smells a little like trash – Kurt daily curses the lack of city planners in the city's early days, who had neglected to put in alleys – but in a deeper, more _real_ way. This isn't just refuse sitting out on the street to be collected – this is old, ancient.

And probably due to the ridiculous amount of dead fish strewn in store windows. But hey, at least the Pashimina is cheaper here than even Union Square, and the knock-off Fendi bags look pretty on point.

It's hard for Kurt to believe, sometimes, that he's been living in the city for half a year and there are still places in just Manhattan that he's never ventured. He wouldn't be venturing here now, if it weren't for Blaine's urgings, and he wished that his boyfriend were here with him, so he didn't have to pick his way down crowded streets that could never fit a car alone.

He can't help but smile a little at the thought of Blaine, still a little woozy on painkillers, a thick, white sheet of gauze wrapped around his head, sitting up in bed and ordering Kurt out.

_"I don't know . . .I'm not sure that I should leave you here alone. The doctor's only agreed to release you as long as you were under 24 hour supervision."_

_ "That was for a _week_ ago, Kurt! You really think my parents would have left if they thought I was still in any danger?"_

_ "Well. . ."_

_ "Fair point. You think my _mom_ would have left?"_

_ The thought of Mrs. Anderson, she of the hand-wringing and the fretting over the cold, the windows, whether the carpet was thick enough for Blaine's feet, and so forth and so on, was enough to coax a smile from Kurt. Blaine leaning forward and grasping his hands was enough to keep it there._

_ "Please go, Kurt. For me? We only have each other, and if you don't see her, we won't even have that."_

_ He was lying blatantly, of course. They'd come a long way from those scared Lima losers. Kurt had his architecture friends, and Tim, and Tim's girlfriend. Blaine has Jon and the rest of the GTBL alliance, and the Kingsmen, and a horde of fan girls who sent him flowers and glittery cards to the hospital. But when Blaine turned those big, puppy dog eyes on Kurt – even losing some of their potency, since his vision still hadn't recovered – he'd found himself hopelessly throwing on a scarf._

_ "But if I see that you've left that bed even to go to the bathroom, I'll handcuff you to it!"_

_ Blaine just grinned. "Kinky. I like it._"

"You'd better like it," Kurt mumbles to himself, as he dodges down yet another cobblestoned pathway. He doesn't feel like he's in New York at all, not with the Chinese writing everywhere, and the short people, and the smell of fish, and these weird streets. He sighs and looks for a street sign. He's pretty sure that he'll be lost for a good day and a half, and in that time Blaine will properly fall into the toilet, or get stuck out on the fire escape, or some other asinine thing, and he'll have to handcuff his boyfriend to the bed after all.

He'll have to ask Jon where he got his.

Kurt grins a little as he finally sees the bright, neon lights proclaiming _Joe's Shanghai_. It supposedly has the most amazing steamed dumplings in all of Chinatown, and is one of the most-hit stops for any New York tourist. Kurt doesn't consider himself a tourist most of the time – not anymore – but he thinks that he'll happily be just a tourist in Chinatown, thank you very much.

He walks in and glances around. There's no way that he's beat Santana, not after his countless minutes of wandering down the wrong street. Sure enough, he spots her leaning against a back wall, just behind the host. He ducks around the short, Chinese man, and bobs over to her.

"Okay, Satan," he says, maybe a little more severely than necessary, but he's still angry at her. "Let's get this over with."

"Sounds good, Ladylips," she says, leading him to their table. She doesn't look good – not Santana good, anyway, Kurt notices. There are bags beneath her eyes, and her hair (weave, wig, whatever) is all tangled. She's wearing a pair of ripped jeans.

Of course, he knows that a week ago he didn't look any better – quite possibly looked worse, when he'd lived in terror of Blaine being dead, and then of Blaine never waking up, and then of Blaine waking up but not remembering him, and then. . .

Well. There had been a lot of worrying. The point being that for once Kurt understands not looking one's best.

Santana's glancing behind him, clearly expecting someone else, and as much as Kurt's tried to harden his heart toward her, he can't help but feel a sharp throb of pity.

"Blaine's not coming," he says, and it must come out harshly, because she winces a little and sits back. He sighs. "He's not coming because he's still wobbly on his feet, and light sensitive, so the subway and the people would have been too much. He really has forgiven you, Santana. He wasn't lying through his teeth at the hospital."

She glances up at him through one set of false lashes, the other eye looking sad and abandoned. "Will you be my friend again?"

It's so unlike Santana when she asks that, sad and sweet. . .Kurt sighs. There's a part of him that wants to pay the bitch, but there's also a part of him that just wants to put this all behind them, and go back to Popover Café, shared bottles of champagne, and the five of them, the escaped New Directions. He reaches out, and grabs Santana's hand.

"We never stopped being friends," he says. It's a little bit of a lie, but one that he's willing to give both of them. "I mean, you did a little, when you stopped talking to all of us, but. . .none of what happened was your fault, and nobody blames you."

She quirks one eyebrow, and he has to laugh.

"Well, I'll admit, I think Mercedes still blames you a little – she was pissed that her entire weekend in New York was ruined by you and Blaine and the sex romp that wasn't – but she'll get over it."

"Yeah, in abut five years," Santana snorts. Kurt shrugs. She's not wrong. Mercedes held her Tots Grudge all the way to graduation, and as far as he can tell, the only time she's ever apologized was for breaking the window on his car back in their sophomore year. And she'd only apologized for that after he'd cried and told her he was gay.

"Look," Kurt says after a moment. "Come with us next weekend. It's Opening Weekend, and even though I personally think Blaine should continue his recuperation inside, with my careful ministrations, he's dead set on seeing the first pitch of the season. Finn and Rachel are coming. You should bring Britt. It will be like old times."

She looks at him curiously. "The Yankees started playin two weeks ago," she says.

"Yeah, we're going to see the Staten Island Yankees," Kurt says, with a grimace. "Please come. Rachel and Finn don't even understand the horror of Staten Island, and Blaine's so excited to take a ferry that he just might piddle the floor like a puppy. I'll need someone normal to keep me sane."

Santana laughs and gestures at herself. "You call this normal?"

Kurt peers. "Hm," he admits. "We may have to do something about that. But we all know that makeovers are my favorite hobby ever!"

Xxx

It's not a good idea. Sure, it's early in the evening, when the sun has mostly set, but the lights haven't all turned on, so it's about as dark as it ever gets in the City that never sleeps. And sure, they're headed down to the RIverwalk, which is never all that busy anyway, but still. Kurt presses in a little tighter to his boyfriend, and grasps his hand a little tighter. Blaine just nudges him playfully.

"I'm fine," he says insistently. "Better than fine. It's so nice to get out of that room!"

Kurt doesn't say anything. He's not entirely certain that he can. It's still surreal to him, the very thought of almost losing Blaine. Those hours in the hospital had been the worst of his life – worse, even, he thinks, than when his dad was there. When Burt had been in the hospital, he'd been terrified, and horribly sad, but there had also been that spark of self-interest, that wonder and worry about where _he_ would go, where _he_ would end up. With Blaine, there was nothing. If Blaine died, Kurt's life would go on, and he knew that with a certainty that he hadn't had in high school.

His life would have gone on, but he shudders to think how empty it would have been.

So he walks down the street, slower than usual, even though Blaine is pretending that he's fine. He rubs his fingers over the the coarse hairs on the back of his boyfriend's hand, he thrills at the warmth beside him, and he snuggles in more than he probably should to the lightweight cardigan.

They stop when they reach the end of the street, Blaine thoughtfully staring at the steps winding down to the park.

"We can head back if you're tired," Kurt says.

"Not tired," Blaine says. "Just. . .I can't see where the stairs end. It all kind of merges together."

Kurt doesn't know what to say to that, the way he never knows what to say when Blaine makes these comments. He just grips his boyfriend's hand tighter and turns him around to head back to the apartment.

"Hey, Kurt," Blaine says softly. "Even if I had to wear super nerdy glasses, or have another eye surgery, or go completely blind, it's still worth it if it made you forgive me."

Kurt freezes for a moment. He glances out the side of his eyes as the light from a streetlamp plays across Blaine's face. It picks up the gold in his eyes, the deep walnut tone of his hair, the olive cast of his skin. Blaine always looks beautiful, but at night he seems almost luminous, and Kurt has to catch his breath.

There are so many ways that he wants to respond. He wants to tell Blaine how stupid he's being, that Kurt was always going to forgive him, that they never broke up, that he's never saying good-bye. He wants to assure Blaine that his vision will come back, wants to tell him that he'll love his nerdy glasses more than any nerdy glasses have ever been loved. He wants to grab him and kiss him, wants to fold their bodies together under the barely-there stars of New York City.

Kurt Hummel wants.

Instead he turns around, and clasps both of Blaine's hands in his own. He lifts them to his lips and kisses each knuckle, one by one. He hears the other boys' breath hitch, and can't keep back the smile that's slowly pulling at his cheeks. When he finally glances up, Blaine's eyes are dark, pupils blown, and so, _so_ focused.

"Come on," Kurt whispers, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Blaine's fingers. "Come on, love, let's go to bed."

Xxx

"I'm King of the World!"

"Finn. . .Finn, get down from there, people are _staring_ at you. . ."

"Are there dolphins like in the movie?"

"_Dios mio_, Britt, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Do _not_ lean over the edge like that. . ."

"We're Kings of the World!"

"Blaine, not you, too. . ."

Kurt just sighs and shakes his head as Rachel finally gives up trying to pull their doofus boyfriends away from the front of the boat (the stern? The prow? Do ferries even go by normal boat names?) and heads back to take a seat with him. He's made certain to be safely _within_ the walls of the ferry, where the wind can't bring any salty water to damage his do. It had been a surprisingly pleasant day. Blaine had bought a pair of binoculars so he could see the players better, and he and Finn had spent the game passing them back and forth, spitting out statistics and learning the players names so quickly it seemed like they'd grown up in Staten Island – which, Kurt isn't entirely certain, isn't actually _worse_ than being from Lima. Brittany had put her ice cream on her hot dog, Santana had flirted with everyone she'd seen, and Rachel had gotten an autograph from the half-starlet from Chorus Line who sang the National Anthem.

All in all, a good day. Tomorrow will be back to work, what with exams coming up. Blaine has a show with the Kingsmen coming up, and he insists that he's good to sing in it, even though he still seems to get winded after long walks and winces in bright stagelights. Rachel has her final showcase, and Finn's still job-hunting.

"Our boyfriends are morons," Rachel says.

"Fiance," Kurt corrects. "My boyfriend, and your fiancé."

"Hmph," Rachel says, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Yes, well, I wouldn't put my money on Finn and I getting married before you and Blaine. I have far too much to do right now to plan a wedding, and Finn doesn't even have a job."

Kurt laughs a little. "Are you saying that I'm not busy?" he asks. "You know. . .I could plan the wedding for you two. I did Dad and Carole's in under two weeks."

"I know," Rachel says. There's a sad little smile on her face as she watches Blaine and Finn at the front of the boat. They're both leaning forward, far enough that it gives Kurt a nervous tiggle in his belly, their arms spread out wide. Finn's leaning forward, but Blaine has his head thrown back, eyes closed. They're both laughing. Kurt reaches out and gives Rachel a squeeze.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just. . .I want Finn and I to try. Out here. I want to be a star, Kurt, I want it so much that it hurts sometimes and. . .and I need to know that Finn's okay with that, that he can support me. It's asking so much of him. . .I know there's a ring on my finger, and I know that's a promise, but. . ."

"But you don't know if it's a promise you can keep," Kurt finishes. She glances at him, teary-eyed.

"I'm so glad you're my best gay," she whispers.

"Me, too."

They all go back to Blaine's apartment that night. Finn doesn't want to return to his hotel room, and Rachel doesn't want to deal with her roommate. Santana and Brittany are always willing to skip out of their cold, dark apartment, and Kurt isn't sure that Tim would even recognize him if he showed up. They pile onto Blaine's big bed, and pop open a bottle of champagne that had been hidden the whole time the parents had been in.

Finn takes the first sip.

"We should toast," he says afterwards, ignoring everyone's groans. "To love," he says, looking at Rachel, before passing it to Brittany.

"To bestest friends," she says, taking a sip and passing it to Rachel.

"To dreams."

Santana makes a grabby motion, and takes a long pull. "To survival."

When it passes to Blaine, he starts at it for a moment, lips pulling up a little. "To courage," he says, winking at Kurt.

"To getting drunk enough not to remember how clichéd this is in the morning," Kurt says, and has to duck the pillow that Rachel throws at his head.

When he falls asleep that night, however, his head cushioned on Blaine's chest, one leg thrown over Rachel's hip and a hand flung out over the spread of Brittany's hair, he has another toast, however, and he whispers it softly, hoping that no one will hear, and knowing that at least one person will.

"To forever."

**A/N: So cheesy. So, so cheesy. But. . .they deserve it. My poor babies have been through hell this year in New York, and the Staten Island Yankees truly do make everything better. Sorry if it was a bit rushed. . .**

**COMING SOON: It's the Five Year McKinley High School Reunion (aka. . .the epilogue!) Will Finchel have tied the knot? Did Santana make it to med school? Has Brittany learned to sort the change? What's Klaine up to? Plus, appearances by all our old favs!**


	25. Epilogue

12/30/2010

**A/N: So, believe it or not, I did not forget about this story! Nor did I forget that I promised everyone an epilogue. Alas, the more I tried to write it, the more I realized that none of it closed everything up the way I wanted – there were still lose ends, and sections that were over-explained, and under-explained, and entire backstories that couldn't figure out how to fit into an epilogue. So instead. . .I've written a sequel.**

**It's called These Lights Will Inspire You, and it picks up with everyone's sophomore years. A few new characters join Rachel, Kurt, Blaine, and Santana in New York (namely Finn, Artie, and Sebastian!) while a secondary story arc picks up with Puck and Mercedes in L.A. I want to work in the Blamtina friendship from Season 4, but I can't quite figure out how, since they are a year younger, and weren't particularly tight with anyone in this new 'verse (stupid retconning of Blaine's age . . .) so we'll see how I do with that.**

**Anyway, to the old readers, thanks for picking this up again (almost a year later!) and to any new readers – well done with your timing!**


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